


Southern Comfort

by Blue_Finch



Series: John Reese*Harold Finch Destined to be Together [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:32:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4225452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Finch/pseuds/Blue_Finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Reese was raised on a southern plantation before joining the army<br/>Harold Finch billionaire wants to live the rest of his life in seclusion<br/>Only why at John's family home and why will he only trust Reese to protect his privacy?</p><p>John Reese was in the Army Rangers, Harold Finch is a reclusive billionaire and Harold knows everything about John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta Read by Managerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Reese, U.S. Army Sergeant Major, retired, returns home to Louisiana
> 
>  
> 
> ***Please remember this is a work of fiction. Some events, the 11th Signal Brigade, and the cities in Saudi Arabia are factual. The rest is purely fiction including people and their actions, where they were, what they did, and when.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Reese returns home after his mother and stepfather have died.  
> His stepbrother has run off to parts unknown.  
> With what should have been his inheritance on the auction block,  
> Reese accepts the offer of a mysterious benefactor to save Hanging Moss.

  ****

U.S. Army Sergeant Major John Reese, retired, drove the rental car down the main street, aptly named Main Street, of his home town Morganville, Louisiana. After flying commercial for the first time in nearly twenty years, Reese had rented the car in Baton Rouge and driven directly to the family attorney's office instead of straight home. After his mother and step-father’s untimely deaths and their funerals two months ago John Reese turned in his retirement request after twenty-three years in the army, twenty as a Ranger, to return to Morganville today, a civilian.

Reese’s mother, Constance Devereaux, was from old southern aristocracy. John’s childhood home, the plantation called Hanging Moss, had belonged to the family since the early 1700’s. Constance had lived the life of a debutante while being courted by the sons of the crème de la crème of southern society at the time. It was her parents’ wishes that she marry someone of social status and she would never defy them; she would wed a suitable fiancé her parents approved of one day. Only it wouldn't be for love; Constance' heart belonged to John's father, the young plantation manager, Jonathan Reese. When her parents were killed in a storm the summer of her twenty-second birthday, with her life now free to live as she chose without anyone to disprove, Constance had married Jonathan.

John’s parents had ignored the snubs of her family's so called friends. They had labeled John's father a gold digger who had taken advantage of his mother's grief to get his hands on Hanging Moss. The plantation prospered and the happy couple welcomed the birth of their son two years after they had married. Sadly all that changed after his father died from cancer when John was only five. His mother had had an emotional breakdown irrationally blaming herself for Jonathan's illness because she had dared to marry beneath her. Constance remarried a true southern blue-blood by the name of Reginald Blanchard and gave birth to John's half-brother, Edward, when John was seven.

Reese felt no animosity towards any of his step family when he had left home to join the service all those years ago. John loved his mother even though as he grew up in her mental state she ignored John and doted on Edward. Although his stepfather never loved him like a son, he had always treated John kindly and Edward was his little brother. The army became John’s life and there was no dissension in the family at all because his brother had been made heir apparent to all but a small portion of Hanging Moss. Reese never felt slighted that only the house his own father once lived in and a hundred acres out of thousands were willed to John.

The more dedicated Reese became to the service of his country, the more tours he went on overseas and the less he tried to make it home. When John did return it was never long enough for Reese to see what lay beneath, to realize Hanging Moss was the epitome of southern grandeur, wealth, and influence in appearance only.

Mismanagement of the plantation's operations by his step-father, the man with a pedigree of a thoroughbred but the business acumen of a two year old, along with heavy gambling debts racked up by Edward and paid for by his parents had long depleted the family’s wealth. Now Hanging Moss was mortgaged beyond its worth with the bank threatening foreclosure, Edward had disappeared without a trace the night of the funerals taking his car along with whatever he could grab quickly to pawn stuffed in the trunk, and John Reese was trying to save what rightly should have been his heritage.

John’s body had learned to adapt to all kinds of weather conditions through years of being in them, but James Noble, Atty. had beads of sweat on his forehead and rolling down his plump cheeks even as the air conditioner blasted away behind his desk. When Noble lowered his considerable bulk into his chair and opened the case file he clucked his tongue then shook his head, “The money you paid Southern Bank has caught up the arrears and kept the mortgage loan with them from going into default but unfortunately there are still outstanding debts your stepfather incurred using other of the plantation’s assets as collateral.”

Noble wiped his face, cleared his throat and looked at John, “I have to be honest. If the lenders repossess everything, as they now have the legal right to do, Hanging Moss will have to cease operations — there won’t be a thing left to operate. There will be no money to pay the next mortgage installment and Southern will foreclose — they will give no more extensions, not one extra day.”

Reese shook his head. He had paid the bank every cent he had saved through years with the Army to stop the immediate foreclosure, but even with the benefits he could use as a vet and retired serviceman there was no way he could pay off the hundreds of thousands of dollars in debts. Even renting the acreage and turning the plantation’s home into a tourist attraction wouldn't see a profit in time to pay the next installment.

Reese wasn’t one to give up easily in a fight, especially not this one; this was his home they were talking about. The lawyer had called John a few days before Reese’s arrival home about an offer someone had made. The whole thing had sounded illegal and John wasn’t interested then, but he was now. Reese swallowed hard, leaned forward in his chair and returned the attorney's gaze, “You told me the other day there might be another way to save my home. I wasn’t interested then; I am now.”

The lawyer nodded and pulled another folder from a wooden box on his desk. As Noble searched through the documents he reiterated, “As we have discussed, your mother and stepfather left nothing behind but debt when they passed. Their life insurance barely covered the funeral expenses. Even though you and your stepbrother were willed the estate neither of you are legally responsible for the liens against it. In that regards their creditors have no recourse to collect what is owed them other than to foreclose on the property or repossess the assets used as collateral. I can only assume it was out of respect for a family whose history is intertwined with this town’s as far back when this area was nothing but swampland that they haven’t already.”

The attorney finally stopped shuffling through the stack of papers when he found a group held together by a black metal clip. “Ah, here they are.” Noble removed the fastener holding the papers together, glanced through them all quickly as if to familiarize himself with the terms once more.

John leaned forward in his own chair to listen closely for his lawyer to rehash every detail page by page of the offer sent to Nobel’s office by a legal firm in New York City. Starting out with why a client of theirs living in a state thousands of miles and almost half a country away from Morganville would even know about Hanging Moss let alone its financial crisis. Noble cleared his throat and began, “Even though Southern didn’t place the notice of intent to foreclose in any newspapers locally or anywhere in Louisiana for that matter the bank did have the notice published in several national newspapers. The date of foreclosure and intent to sell at auction is ninety days from the date of publication and exactly one day after the next mortgage installment is due.”

The attorney paused to wipe his face and look up at Reese apprehensively, "I should have been more diligent in my own duties by stressing the point that neither you nor your stepbrother can inherit a debt. I should have warned you the wheels had already been set in motion for the bank to foreclose. Yet, when you were adamant to pay the arrears stressing that you would find a way to pay the next installment in time, I let my own personal feelings get in the way. I apologize for that. I let my fondness for your family and a romantic notion that things would always be as they had for centuries — that you would find a way to keep Hanging Moss in your family’s possession — cloud my judgement. I should not have allowed you to give your life savings to the bank when legally and realistically, I knew we were only delaying the inevitable."

Reese was angered briefly and started to rise from his chair, ready to tell the lawyer to go to hell, and walk out of the office. Only a fit of anger directed at someone John had bull rushed because he was intent on doing things his own way weeks earlier and realizing in that moment he wouldn't have listened to the lawyer’s reasoning then anyway, wasn't going to save his home now. John took a deep breath to calm himself and conceded, "Nothing to be done about it now."

Reese pointed at the papers and then asked urgently, “Now please go on, how is an offer from a NYC law firm going to save my home?"

Noble nodded; visibly relieved his client wasn't going to fire him or worse, the attorney looked down at the papers in front of him, cleared his throat and continued, “Southern is a Federally Insured Bank with stockholders and such. As I mentioned, I believe out of respect for your family they never published the foreclosure notice in town or newspapers statewide. However, they are required by US law to make the status known to shareholders, industry insiders, and anyone with any interest at all in the foreclosure of the property, mainly your missing stepbrother, of the intent to foreclose. And to that end, they published the notice in newspapers with large circulations in cities across the country.”

Noble looked up then to lock eyes with John to inform him, “That is how a New York City law firm has a wealthy client who knows of your situation and wishes to make this proposal to you and you alone.”

The attorney's eyes cast downward at that, “The bank has legally made it known - **publicly** \- the property is in distress and has already accepted the offer given by the law firm’s client, who only wishes to be known as _Mr. Smith_ , to buy the property for the amount of the mortgage’s balance. Unless you or your stepbrother pay the upcoming installment due, the bank will foreclose, sell the property, and forty-eight hours later the legal title freed of all liens will be ready for transferal, Hanging Moss will become the property of its new owner. There is no way you can pay it and I am sure your stepbrother will not resurface with cash in hand to pay the next installment due plus every other loan in default against the plantation's assets. Hanging Moss **will** be sold; everything not permanently attached to the land and with a lien against it will be repossessed.”

Reese smacked his hand open palmed on the desk and demanded, “Okay, there is no way around the bank jumping at the chance to auction off a foreclosed property for the amount owed thereby not taking a huge loss  — Southern has all but turned over the title. I understand that, but **how in the hell is that going to save my home?** ”

Noble startled back against his chair but amazingly and calmly continued, answering John’s question by handing what looked to be a cashier’s check stapled to some more legal documents across the desk, “This is how.”

While Reese stared at the amount of the check with all its zeroes, the attorney explained, “The client, _Mr. Smith_ , wishes to sell the property back to you. His expectations are for you to run the plantation as a working one, not as some tourist attraction. He has arranged for you to have a mortgage loan through the financial institution listed in the proposed agreement, one for a thirty year term, payments of $50,000 semiannually. The legal title will be transferred directly into your name. Hanging Moss will belong to you and you alone Mr. Reese. Well, you and the mortgage lien holder of course. In return for selling the property back to you and for your utmost secrecy on the matter, their client wishes only to live in the old plantation house of your father’s undisturbed. Even to that end he will pay you rent per year totaling half your yearly mortgage. All you need to do is sign the paperwork and run Hanging Moss the way it should be.”

The lawyer paused until Reese looked up from the check he was holding before attempting to hand John a pen, “You have thirty days to think it through, of course, as nothing really can be done before then, but the check you are holding is a good faith payment to you that their client is serious about his offer. There is more than enough there to pay what is due to the rest of your parent’s creditors, to retain plantation assets or purchase whatever you feel is necessary to begin operations again, and reimburse you for the money you have already paid to Southern Bank. At the end of thirty days you can walk away from the deal, whole again, and never look back.”

John scooted forward in his chair to lean toward the corpulent man. “Why would someone buy a property that came with more debt than the entire estate is worth? This whoever-he-is won’t be starting at zero. He will be starting at a deficit. Then offer to sell the property back to me at its true estimated worth in return for living in a rundown house. To top that off he wants to pay some insanely outrageous rental payment — just for privacy.”

Reese shook his head in disbelief, “Why didn't Mr. Whatever-his-name-is just wait for the foreclosure to be complete and snatch the property up at auction for a much reduced rate? He would own the property, could live in the mansion itself and still have plenty of money left over to run Hanging Moss as a working plantation, make it some fancy tourist attraction, or God forbid turn the place into some kind of resort.

John waved the check in the air before tapping it repeatedly with his forefinger, “I just don’t understand why this man would opt to lose millions of dollars in order to ensure I keep Hanging Moss in my name, run it as it should have been if my step-father hadn’t been such an idiot, all in exchange for my secrecy so this _Mr. Smith_ can live in seclusion.”

The lawyer sat back. “Yes he could have waited until the date of intent to auction the property published in the newspaper and taken the chance to buy the property for a song if someone else didn’t outbid him. Then if making the purchase successfully try to find someone trustworthy enough to run the business side of things, to keep his employer’s name a secret, thereby allowing _Mr. Smith_ to live there in anonymity and seclusion. But _Mr. Smith_ doesn’t want that. He wants you to retain the title, to take over the operations, and keep his involvement a secret; he trusts you.”  

John interrupted with a furrowed brow, each syllable rising in volume as he tried and failed to understand, “That makes no sense. How does this guy even know I can be trusted? The whole thing sounds insane, not to mention illegal.”

Noble tossed the pen he still held in his hand and the papers he had in the other down on the desk near the edge closest to where Reese was sitting, the lawyer’s voice barely held in check now, “One second Mr. Reese. Hear the rest out. You want to tear up that check, walk away, it’s your choice. Just let me finish, first.”

John sat back in his chair ready to listen knowing his outbursts were getting him nowhere.

The lawyer nodded and continued, “See, _Mr. Smith_ needs a residence that ensures his privacy. I can tell you that from what I have found there is nothing illegal going on. Think of it like a retirement home. He wants to pay for his room and board upfront. Have the property maintained and the privacy he craves, but not have to deal with the paperwork, not have unwanted or unexpected visitors to deal with and _Mr. Smith_ certainly doesn't want a record of his ownership. The gentleman only wishes to be left alone in his twilight years. No property taxes, no census, no contact with people. Why, I don’t know, but it’s nothing unlawful; he is not a wanted felon.

John spoke more calmly, “Okay, I believe what I will be doing is above board.” Reese waved his hand for Noble to continue.

“To do that he needs to be absolutely sure that the legal owner is honorable and stable. Now, your brother is a hell of a guy, a better friend one couldn’t ask for when Edward was sober and staying away from the card tables, but he isn’t a war hero or reliable if I am honest. This opportunity will only work if you are the owner on paper, if **you** make the deal. Your brother has a reputation for forgetting some of his responsibilities. Not so with you. The New York firm will wipe the slate clean for you. No more debts and you will be the owner on paper. In exchange you have a permanent silent partner so to speak.”

James Noble picked up the pen and pushed the temporary agreement papers towards John. “Now, I don’t know the reasons why _Mr. Smith_ is making this offer, or how sane the man is for even doing so, but he is definitely the one with the most to lose.”

The attorney then looked Reese in the eyes, "What I can tell you is, best case scenario, Hanging Moss will belong to you or your descendants for years to come and your family's name remembered for its glorious history not your parent's mistakes; at the worst, you can walk away from everything taking your rewards from your years of service to this country with you, anything belonging to your family that you wish to keep, and leave knowing the family's name will still be one of respect."

Reese reached out to take the pen, silently prayed he was doing the right thing, then signed the preliminary agreement, endorsed the cashier's check and pushed them both back towards the attorney, "Settle up my parent's affairs. Deposit the remainder into the plantation's business account and make sure either you or I are the only ones with authorization to it. I am going home." John shook the attorney's hand, left the office, the building, got in behind the steering wheel of the rental car, looked around downtown Morganville, started up the car to pull it out of the parking space and did just that.

Attorney Noble called the firm in NYC and faxed Smith’s lawyer copies of the agreement.

###

In a penthouse in New York City, a man sat in a wheelchair looking out a widow at the city skyline. Another man entered the unlit room and walked quietly over to stand next to him, "Sergeant Reese has agreed to everything. Harold, are you sure this is what you want to do?"

~~*~~

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how many chapters this work will have or how quickly I will be able to write and post each one.  
> Next chapter will be about Harold Finch, what tragedy has befallen him, why he wants to hide from the world now, why at Hanging Moss, and why he does have so much faith in John Reese.
> 
> *Edit: next 3 chapters...*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysteries surrounding Harold Finch.  
> Part one.
> 
>  
> 
> ***Please remember this is a work of fiction. Some events, the 11th Signal Brigade, and the cities in Saudi Arabia are factual. The rest is purely fiction including people and their actions, where they were, what they did, and when.**

  ****

Harold Finch sat looking out the window as he done for the past year, with the overly expensive yet tastefully decorated overhead lighting turned off. A small lamp in the corner by his reading chair was the only illumination in the huge bedroom. Even though the shutters were raised and the day was bright with the summer sun, the heavy tinting of the windows made everything outside appear as if it were early evening. Of course, with just the glow from the low wattage incandescent bulbs in the tiny lamp and the filtered light from the window — what there was of it — the bedroom was almost too dark to see anything in the room including the man sitting in the wheelchair.

Finch knew it was his attorney, Raymond Kensington, who had rapped lightly at the door before he had bid the man to enter. His housekeeper had strict instructions not to let anyone enter the penthouse that wasn’t pre-approved. The only two people allowed to get any further than the foyer were Raymond and Arthur Whitmore. Arthur was away with his family in Hawaii so that left Kensington. And of course, Harold had an idea why Raymond had made a personal visit instead of a phone call.

The lawyer had been in the room so many times since his client had come home that the darkness didn’t slow him any as he walked up to look out the window too, "Sergeant Reese has agreed to everything. Harold, are you sure this is what you want to do?"

Finch turned his chair to the right to face his friend when Raymond knelt down beside him. Even though the seasoned attorney knew his words were going to fall on deaf ears once more he still tried to convince Harold to reverse his decision.

“You don’t have to spend the rest of your life alone and hidden away. What that bitch said to you isn’t true. You are not some hideous monster that needs to be locked away so you won’t frighten the good villagers. You don’t have to hide here in the dark where no one can see you. Not from those of us who really do care about you. And we still do — about you, not your looks. You know you can live with me and Janine. Artie and his wife would love for you to stay with them. Either one of us will make sure you never have to deal with anyone or anything, just rest and heal. Hell, if you want that and privacy too, you can stay right here in this penthouse. It’s easier to sneak into the White House and speak to the president face to face than it is to get past your guard dog, I mean housekeeper.”

Even in the gloomy interior Raymond could see on Finch's face what his answer was going to be, yet again. When he stood he couldn’t help but raise his voice in frustration, “Damn it! Harold you don’t have to disappear from your life here. Everything we all have worked for — Arthur’s and your company, my law firm, their headquarters — and all your friends are here in New York City. What do you have in....Morganville?”

Harold reached out to grab Raymond’s wrist before the man could walk out of the room, his answer to his friend’s question barely audible as Harold spoke softly, “The only person who ever loved me for me.” Finch pressed on hurriedly raising his voice to its normal level after realizing he had spilled a secret he had never meant to tell, anyone, ever, “I appreciate yours and Arthur’s offers, but you have your own families to care for, you don’t need to take me on too. I trust Sergeant Reese to honor his part. I won’t be bothered.  I can, as you say, rest and heal in privacy. I just think it's best for all concerned, including myself; that I go away.”

The attorney slipped his wrist from Finch’s grip to take Harold’s hand like they were handshaking on a deal, “I’ll notify Atty. Noble and Southern Bank. Whatever Reese decides to do after the thirty days, you will own the plantation, Hanging Moss, either outright or as the true lien holder.” The friend then gripped Harold’s hand tightly, “I hope you know what you are doing.”

 _I do, Ray. I do._ Finch turned his chair back around to gaze out at the city skyline once more. Harold’s pale blue eyes looking through thickish lens in wire rims — he had switched back to the thinner lighter frame of his youth when the heavier plastics that were his style for the past twenty years irritated the healing flesh of his face and ears — were not really seeing the vista the penthouse offered because the images now in Harold’s mind were that of his past.

~~~

It had been a statistical anomaly that the tiny town of Sweetwell, Texas had two students of genius level IQ offered full scholarships to M.I.T., but a third was considered theoretically impossible. Sweetwell had a higher percentage of probability in being struck by a meteor…twice, than it had of three young men who had tested off the S.A.T. charts all going to the think tank of colleges from the same graduating class of high school seniors. Add to that a fourth student, whose scores topped the other three, going to Harvard School of Law, the citizens of the tiny town should have been preparing for a cosmic event. Instead the entire community held a going away party at the village hall for the four young men in the fall of 1975.

The four college bound friends had pooled some of their savings and bought an old blue Volkswagen van to drive to Massachusetts. With almost everything they owned in the van along with their hopes and dreams for the future, Harold Finch, Arthur Whitmore, Nathaniel Steward, and Raymond Kensington had waved goodbye to family and friends then set off to M.I.T. and Harvard, respectively.

The first stop off once they reached Cambridge had been the M.I.T. campus. Harold and Nathaniel’s request to be roommates had been approved. Arthur being the odd man out had to share a room with a hippie from California, but by the end of the first week Darryl Anders was part of their odd little group as if he always had been. Raymond had chosen to live off campus, and by unanimous approval was allowed to keep the van. Once everything was unloaded and carried to the first three student’s dorm rooms, Raymond wished his friends well, waved goodbye, and drove away to start his own adventure.

Finch had always been shy, awkward, homely, and the literal geekiest of the three, now four friends. He chose to be reclusive, only being seen in class or at the various labs on campus never off at the gathering places popular with the students of the college city of Cambridge. Harold didn’t mind that his roommate Nate became the most popular, date-able man on campus their freshman and sophomore years, despite the two of them having a secret love affair. Harold understood the need to keep what they felt for each other just between them, it was the times.

All that changed their junior year. His roommate’s predilection to bedding any woman available just to prove he was a woman’s man instead of focusing on his studies had ended up with Nate dropping out of school and returning to Texas with a pregnant wife to work at the family hardware store.

With his roommate back in Texas, along with any hopes dashed that he and Nate would ever be more than friends, Harold had tried to become more social. Arthur became his new roommate — Darryl left school that summer to protest the system. The two became even closer friends than before. Not close like he and Nate had been. Artie had become engaged to a lovely woman during his sophomore year and was definitely straight.

Finch didn’t feel sorry for himself that Arthur, as Nathaniel before him, had become a handsome man who caught the eye of those around him. He wasn’t jealous that Arthur found a beautiful woman to love him while Harold remained the same socially inept wallflower he always was. The ugly duckling never turned into a beautiful swan. But, that was okay. Harold and Artie, neither student wanting or needing to be social butterflies, buckled down in their studies to both graduate at the top of their class.

Late nights while pouring through textbook after textbook, studying for this exam or that, the two had talked about their plans for after graduation. Together, Arthur and Harold decided to start a company right out of school.

With money invested into their start-up by their families — money saved by Harold’s father and Arthur's parents, savings originally intended for college tuition and expenses — Harold and Arthur went to New York City to start Whitmore Finch Telecommunications – WFT. It was hard going at first. Even though they hadn’t been back to Sweetwell except for college breaks and summer vacations in four years it was still the only place they knew. New York City was huge and strange; the only people out of millions they could even call friends were Artie’s soon to be in-laws and of course Raymond. Raymond Kensington, Atty. with his recently awarded degree, had started his own one man legal firm specializing in corporate law. “You’re going to need a good attorney when WFT hits the big-time,” Ray had called them from his new office in a seen better days high-rise in downtown Brooklyn.

In the beginning the two free-lanced for many companies, just doing IT on the side to supplement their income. As their reputations about their excellent work grew throughout the industry that they worked in so did the contracts awarded to their own company. Why take a bid from a contractor that hoped it might convince Harold Finch or Arthur Whitmore to come in as its project manager when the bid could be awarded to the men themselves?

By the time they were celebrating their fifth anniversary as a corporation they had a contract with IBM. By 1987 they had won several lucrative bids for the U.S. Government as well as those with several countries. This meant traveling to the backwater bases in foreign countries to set up sat nav and communication hubs for the U.S. military. Since the fall of the Soviet Union many of its former states wanted western technologies for the people of their countries and contracted with WFT to bring it to them. Arthur had married by then so it only felt right for the bachelor Harold to do the traveling.

Finch began to enjoy the adventures. Learning new cultures and making contacts in the computer geek world abroad helped strengthen their consumer base. Harold never regretted the travel or the transient nature of his love life. A tryst here and there with some brilliant fellow tech nerd or a beautiful woman who caught his eye was all he could really afford to spare, especially knowing his new-found desirability was because of the invisible dollar signs above his head. Harold never really considered gender an issue. Sex was sex from either one. He gave up on love after Nate left him.

It was a good life and Arthur made sure that when he was in New York he was included in the family. That was the only love Harold Finch wanted or needed. In fact Harold was back in New York planning an extended stay with them after WFT's latest project in Southeast Asia had ended.

Only the time he was in the states was short lived. WFT was awarded a contract with the government of Saudi Arabia to build its communications infrastructure. In November 1989 Finch left for Ad Hammam to head the project scheduled to last 2 years.

Eleven months later while Finch and his crew of workmen were building a satellite station near the city of Hafar al Batin, Iraq invaded the tiny country of Kuwait. At the behest of the Saudi Arabian government all of the private contractors in its employ including WFT were asked to work with the U.S. Armed Forces. There were many logistical problems associated with the immediate deployment of huge numbers American troops in a short amount of time into the country to defend it if Iraq decided to invade this oil rich country too.

Thankfully Finch and his group remained safe in the city patrolled by Saudi troops. With the arrival of the 11th Signal Brigade of the U.S. Army, Harold and two other unmarried men working for WFT in the project were preparing to go back out in the field to work along with specialists of the brigade setting up the all-important communications in a military operation now.

***

Harold Finch was in his room in one of the few modern hotels in Hafar when there was a knock at his door. Two uniforms from the 11th brigade, one a master-sergeant who asked for permission to enter, came into the tiny room. The officer first introduced himself then the young private, John Reese.

With Reese at attention beside him, the sergeant’s voice boomed with authority, “The U.S. Army appreciates your assistance but you are a civilian in an area of conflict. We are not only here in this country to defend its citizens; we are also here to protect Americans. From now on Private Reese will be your shadow, here and in the field. We will be departing at 0500 for the site outside Umm Radmah. The private here will make sure you are ready.” With a nod to Finch and a return salute to the private the sergeant left the room.

Finch looked the young soldier up and down who was still standing rigidly at attention. _He’s only a damn kid. I bet he just started shaving. And **he’s** supposed to protect me, more like it will be the other way around._ Harold nodded at the duffel the private had dropped at his feet after he had entered the room and pointed to the extra bed. Not bothering to hide his irritation at the invasion of his privacy, Harold barked, “You sleep there and for god’s sake **at ease** , Private.”

***

It took almost a week for Finch to get the private to relax, even just a little. When they were alone that first night in the motel room and their shared tent at the work site outside Umm Radmah after that, Private Reese would always stiffly keep watch near a door or the flap of the tent like Harold was his prisoner not the civilian he was assigned to protect. The third night when Harold had woken up already stiff and sore after being asleep only two hours on the uncomfortable military issue camp bed, Reese was still standing, rifle in hand near the entrance, the lantern still on. Finch had rolled over on his side and snapped, “Could you please act like a normal human and sleep? I don’t want my life to depend on a sleep deprived scarecrow with a Rambo complex!”

The young man jumped, turned swiftly and pointed the rifle at Finch. Harold calmly raised an eyebrow as if to say, _“See what I mean?”_ Reese looked at the man on the cot then down at the gun in his hands thunderstruck at the realization that he was aiming his rifle at the person he was sent to protect. The private then replied with a shaky, “Yes Sir.”

Harold had then raised up on his elbow to watch the stricken soldier shoulder his weapon, turn on wobbly legs towards his own bunk, and click off the lantern. Finch had then stretched out on his back while listening to the private stow the rifle next to his own cot, then strip to bed down for the night.

In the quiet dark Harold had softly admonished Reese before closing his own eyes, “You can stop with the Sirs. When we are alone, call me Finch or Harold.” It was silent for a few seconds before there was an answer. Maybe it was just his imagination but Harold thought he heard relief and gratefulness — like Harold had just gifted the young man something special — in Reese’s softly drawled, “Yes, si- I mean Finch. Please, call me John.”

After that they would prepare for sleep as much as they could camped in the desert like they were, but - John - would remain vigilant long after Harold had fallen asleep. Reese would be up, dressed in his always crisp uniform, waiting on Finch to wake and get ready, before they would head for the mess tent. They would then be bused to the site along with Finch’s other employees and their _shadows_. But Harold hadn’t awakened anymore in the middle of the night to an armed scarecrow standing guard, only to the sound of John breathing in sleep a few feet away.

Two weeks into the construction of the satellite station, Harold was having a problem linking the hardware, mainly a cable connection, to the communications computers. The rest of his crew was miles away at the next station beginning construction and there was no one around to physically adjust the cable at the same time Finch ran the diagnostics. He couldn’t call away any of the sentries still posted at the station here. Reese had been following him back and forth as Harold tried to fix the problem and he could see on John’s face how much he wanted to offer his help but couldn’t. It wasn’t his assignment to assist just protect.

 _Screw protocol!_ Harold had thought and waved Reese over to the console then showed him the monitor which was dark. Finch told the private a sequence of numbers to enter if a prompt came up. If the connection worked a series of code would fill the screen and remain there; if it was lost again, the screen would go dark. Finch had gone back outside to adjust and readjust the connection when on the third try he had heard Reese yelp, “Finch! It’s working!”

Finch had worked on the coding for several hours after their success, with John watching over his shoulder. Harold had explained everything he was doing in language he felt Reese would understand, but was pleased, as well as a bit shocked, when John seemed to comprehend most of what he was saying when his words became more ‘geek speak’ then simple explanation.

Harold had chastised himself over and over again the following days for making a terribly incorrect assumption. Private John Reese wasn't some gangling country simpleton who hadn't made it past grade school; he was bright and quick, soaking up anything and everything Finch did or said. The young man was a sponge. Reese should have been training as a communications tech with the 11th Signal Brigade not running around being G.I. Joe.

The two of them didn’t have much free time between halting work for the day and bedding down for the night. However, with what little they did have, Finch would give the private impromptu training lessons in relation to whatever Harold would be working on the next day or soon thereafter.

Private Reese wore his sidearm at all times and his rifle was never out of arm’s reach — Harold Finch’s safety was his primary duty. Only in the days, weeks, and months ahead, John became not only a valuable apprentice/assistant to Finch, but a close, trusted friend as well.

Since Reese was such a quick study eventually the talks they had in their free moments on the job or back in camp drifted away from the technical into the personal. John spent hours talking about his home, the plantation he was raised on, and why he decided to join the army. John Reese wanted a life where he would feel useful and needed, because he wasn’t really a part of the family he loved.

Harold and Artie’s company was well on the way to making them millionaires, but they had worked their asses off in order to reap the rewards. John didn’t seem to care about money or wealth, doing his duty and protecting his country were more important to him than falling into a huge inheritance simply because of social breeding. It bothered Harold though that something John’s father had made prosper was going to Edward, John’s half-brother, simply because Edward’s father was high class.

It was when John had excitedly decided to share a letter from home that his mother had written which was nothing more than a listing Edward’s latest accolades, there was not one word in the letter to ask how John was doing, that Finch had to bite his tongue. Harold had to find something to occupy his hands when he had felt the urge to shake Reese by the shoulders and shout at him that it wasn’t at all right the way John was being treated.

Finch had rifled through some schematic drawings pretending to look over them then had irritably tossed them back on his makeshift desk and snapped, “Lights out Reese! We need some shut-eye.” John put down the letter and turned off the lantern, both of them getting ready for bed in the awkward silence that followed. Harold had been lying on his back trying to figure out why his friend’s situation would infuriate him so when John didn’t seem bothered in the least.

Finch first sorted out that the reason it angered him of course was because he cared about John as a friend. As he stared up into the dark Harold finally had admitted it to himself that his hostility towards people he didn’t even know because of the way they treated their son meant his feelings for John had went way beyond friendship.

Harold couldn’t deny he had been strongly attracted to the tall, handsome young man. Who wouldn’t have been? John was still part ugly duckling. Yet, long lashes that fluttered over deep hazel eyes, well defined cheekbones, and a smile that lit up his whole face showed promise of the beautiful swan John was going to be. Reese’s physique, although still growing, was already striking; a poster with John in uniform could have hung in an army recruitment office.

Only Harold hadn’t fallen in love with the outer package, but what was inside. John was earnest, sweet natured, and humble. He was bright but didn’t show off, he was handsome but didn’t use it to his advantage. He used his size and strength to help those weaker than he not bully or take advantage of them. John was as wonderful on the inside as he was handsome on the outside and Harold loved him.

Finch had been in the process of kicking himself mentally for allowing it to happen, his conscience telling him how wrong it was — Reese was just a kid thirteen years his junior for god’s sake — when John had asked, obviously upset and confused, “What did I do? Are you angry with me?”

Harold had been caught off guard and hurried to answer, “No! Not you! I abhor the way your family treats you. What have you done? Nothing except be the kind and generous man I have - I have become friends with. I get upset when people I care about get wronged.”

John had sighed in relief then confessed to Harold, “It’s okay. I know my family treats me like I am a nobody. I’m okay with it. Thanks for being on my side though. And I care about you too, Harold.”

In the days that followed there came a change in their behavior. Nothing overt, but when handing over a tool or mug their fingers would linger a bit too long. Every once in awhile Harold would look over a see John staring at him. The gaze was quickly averted with a blush on the young man’s cheeks. When they walked to the mess hall their arms would brush against each other absentmindedly. Soon, casual touches became the norm for them. Instead of going to sleep immediately at lights out they started talking about personal things, whispers of their lives, hopes and fears. It was as if some wall between them had crumbled once Harold admitted his concerns and appreciation for John. John felt comfortable around Harold. Harold felt that he had gained not only a friend but a confidant, something he had missed for so long.

 ~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next
> 
> The mysteries surrounding Harold Finch.  
> Part two.
> 
> I was only half-way in writing everything I wanted in this chapter  
> so divided it here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysteries surrounding Harold Finch.  
> Part two.
> 
>  
> 
> ***Please remember this is a work of fiction. Some events, the 11th Signal Brigade, and the cities in Saudi Arabia are factual. The rest is purely fiction including people and their actions, where they were, what they did, and when.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Harold get closer.  
> After their first time they are separated  
> WARNING Explicit content after the @@@

    ****

The manned communications center — a permanent building of concrete, three satellite dishes and a 100 meter high radio tower surrounded by a 10 ft. fence topped with barbed wire on the edge of the city of Ash Shu'bah — had taken five weeks to complete.

Finch and the WFT crew had been working nonstop the entire time and they needed a break. Their next project, a small substation near Rafhā’, wasn’t scheduled to start construction for four days. He had given his employees permission to spend the next forty-eight hours getting some R&R, but warned them to stay out of trouble. With the exception of essential personnel of the small unit of thirty soldiers from the 11th Signal Brigade, the specialists whom Finch's crew were working with along with half the combat soldiers including Private Reese and the others assigned to protecting the civilian contractors, had also been given leave for twenty-four hours.

Finch hadn’t been interested in finding someone to spend a night or two with like he would have months before. Instead, he had returned to his quarters after the others had left. Harold hadn’t wanted any more meaningless one night stands. Even when in all good conscious Finch couldn’t give into his desires, Harold only wanted and needed the young soldier he had fallen in love with. The relationship had changed between him and Reese of course — as friends and confidants; Harold, as introverted as he had become through the years, had shared almost everything with the young man — to where Finch could sense all he had to do was open his arms and John would be his. But, that would have been selfish; John was still young and naive. So Harold had not allowed things to go farther than the casual touch.

Harold had stretched out on his cot with his head lying on his crossed arms, staring up at the stretch of canvas above him. He had closed his eyes intending to catch up on some much needed sleep, while thinking that tomorrow he would write some letters and package up the souvenirs he had found for Nate’s son to mail them back to the states. He really hadn’t expected John to return until the next night, believing Reese would rather have joined some of his comrades to relax and unwind. Only…

Reese had returned from assembly to their tent, excited about going on furlough. The smile on his face had turned into disappointment when he found Harold stretched out on his bunk, intending to stay in the camp.

“I thought we would go into the city together,” John had said. John's face looked crushed as if the poor boy actually thought spending his first leave with Harold since being assigned security detail watching him twenty-four hours a day would be fun. By just seeing John so crestfallen Harold had almost given in. However, John Reese needed the freedom to be a young man — to experience life — not tied to an old man who had already seen too much. 

Finch had then made the excuse that he wanted to just get some much needed rest, but urged Reese to go with the other men in his unit. “You’re a young colt, go kick up your heels. You don’t need an old plug like me hanging around. Besides, heaven knows you must be sick of seeing my face,” Harold had encouraged him reluctantly.

John had given Harold one more pleading look, then walked over to his bunk and started stripping out of his camouflage and work boots. Dressed only in a robe and sandals, Reese pulled a towel out of his foot locker, flung it over one shoulder, paused briefly at the tent entrance to look back, and shrugged his shoulders before leaving for the showers.

Harold asked God to give him strength when John had returned, freshly showered. When he had disrobed, Harold saw skin still pink from scrubbing along with everything else. The young man was almost blushing in his bashfulness even though he had made sure Harold did see **everything** before he dressed in fresh boxers, tee-shirt, and his service uniform shirt and pants. When John had trouble with his gold tie, Harold got up from his camp bed to help. When Harold had tried to step back, John had grabbed him by the shoulders to look down at the shorter man. The hazel eyes were filled with devotion and John’s voice had cracked when he asked one final time, “Please? Change your mind. I’d rather be with you. You’re not…old. And, I’d never get sick of seeing your face.”

It had been so hard to resist the temptation of saying yes and going out with the handsome young man standing before him; even harder still to not ask John to stay there with him. Harold was strong however. He had pushed John out of the tent with orders to stay safe and have fun.

***

Finch couldn’t fall asleep like he wanted; the voices in his head were keeping him awake. Conscious was whispering in Harold’s ear that he had done the right thing but louder Temptation was berating him for not taking what he wanted. He just couldn’t get John Reese and what he was possibly doing or what the two of them could be doing right now out of his mind. So Harold was awake when there was a commotion outside.

The young soldier who had been occupying Harold’s thoughts stumbled in about one AM. He had been drinking, not overly inebriated, but Reese’s usual grace was missing. John attempted to take his boots off, but landed on the floor in a fit of giggles. Harold reached over to turn on a lantern and John smiled over at him sweetly. Reese pushed himself up on wobbly legs, staggered over to Finch's bunk then landed half on top of Harold. His breath smelled strongly of the local brew. John’s eyes were wide and glassy, his cheeks flushed from drink; he was the most gorgeous thing Harold had seen in decades.

John grinned down at him and slurred, “The boys wanted to go to a place off limits. I didn’t want to go with them, but they shanghaied me. We had something sweet that had a hell of a kick.”

Harold nodded with a grimace and sniffed, “I can smell that.”

John ducked his head bashfully and wiped his mouth on his sleeve as if that would remove any trace of the foul smelling concoction. He then leaned even closer to Harold’s face. “They had girls there. Really pretty girls, but not like **nice** girls. They were nice to us but that’s cause they expected something like money or gifts for being nice.”

Harold raised his eyebrows at that. If the soldiers were heading into a red light district in this part of the world they were not only skating by the military’s rules but also local law. They were literally taking their lives in their hands. But as Harold knew from his own experience, being so long and so far away from home and country, men sometimes took chances like that. It pained him that John and his army buddies had ended up in a place like that, but as Harold kept reminding himself; John and the rest of his comrades were still practically boys.

John continued breathlessly, “One of ’em kissed me. It was a good kiss. Most guys were whistling and catcalling that’s how good a kiss it was.”

Harold really didn't want to hear the details but John persisted by not letting Harold sit up. “But the whole time all I could think about was you. How I wanted you to be there, how I would rather have talked to you all night than drinking and such. I thought about how she felt and tasted and it was all wrong. She wasn’t you.”

His lips parted and he leaned them so very close to the paralyzed set of Harold’s own mouth. “I didn’t want her kiss you see? I only want your kiss. So, I left and made my way home. Can I? Can I have your kiss?”

Harold expelled a breath in an exasperated huff, moved his head slightly several times in a negative motion while one corner of his mouth turned up, “What am I going to do with you John?”

Temptation won out when Harold raised his free arm to ghost the fingers of that hand up John’s neck before splaying them across the back of his head pulling it and those willing lips down to meet Harold’s own.

Oh and oh! John was such a good kisser. John opened his mouth to allow Harold's seeking tongue in, letting Harold taste the sweet flavor of fermentation left there that combined with John’s own. He would flick his own tongue over its tip or suck on Harold’s tongue making the older man moan.

Only when he was sure Harold had tasted his fill, when John lifted his head seeking permission and Harold pulled his head back down, did John seek out his own pleasure.

As each kiss followed the other, becoming more passionate each time, Harold felt himself hardening; John felt it too. When Reese rolled onto his side and tried to slip his hand inside Harold’s boxers, Harold grabbed John’s wrist firmly, stopping the young man with a reluctant but resolute, “No!”

John eyes widened in surprise before his long lashes started blinking back the moisture filling them, his lips quivered as he whined, “Harold I wanted to make you feel good. Don’t you want me to?”

Harold let go of Reese’s hand and reached up to push back a short length of hair from John’s forehead fondly, “Of course I want you to. You don’t know how much **I want you to**. I just can’t let this go further until I am sure it’s what you really want.”

John sniffed, “It is. Just as much as I wanted to kiss you.”

Harold slid off his bunk then urged John to get up too.

John made it to a sit and actually pouted. The older man held John’s hands lovingly. He sighed, “You are drunk.” When John made to protest Harold gripped the hands firmly until John was quiet.

Harold continued, “You might think this is a good idea now. In the morning that might not be the case. However, if you feel the same when sober we will talk about it. Is that alright?”

John shrugged and mumbled, “Okay, I guess.”

Harold pulled John to his feet and helped him sway over to Reese’s own bunk. “For now, how about you get comfortable and try to sleep it off. I will get you a big glass of water so the hangover isn’t so horrible. Okay?”

Harold went over to their canteen and poured out a full cup for John to take. He politely kept his back turned so John could get undressed.

When he heard a body flop down on the mattress and nothing else except soft snoring, Harold turned around. John was lying crossways on his bunk still fully clothed with only one bootlace untied and dead to the world.

Harold harrumphed and drank the water himself. He returned the cup to the stand then went over to lift John’s feet up and turn him the right way on the cot. John’s feet hung over the edge, but Harold was able to finish untying and pull off the boots. Harold was thankful that they were still fairly clean and polished as he held one boot then the other up against his bare thigh. When Harold was finished he moved back over to the side of the bed and bent to kiss John’s forehead.

Harold returned to his own bunk and turned out the lantern. Harold was in for a restless night of tossing and turning. The lure of John’s offer made it nearly impossible to think of nothing else. When the camp began to stir with early morning activity from the personnel still on duty or those that had chosen to stay in the encampment like Finch had, Harold had just drifted into a doze.

***

Finch had practically launched his old wind up alarm clock when its shrill ringing sounded a few hours after he had dozed off.

Over in the next bunk Private Reese had sat up, twisting his legs around to put his socked feet on the floor while holding his head and groaning, “Oh god, what have I done?”

Finch’s stomach had clenched and he felt his heart lurch thinking Reese had recalled their activities of the night before and John had regretted his actions come morning. Nevertheless, Harold had pretended like John’s drunken displays of affection were already forgiven and forgotten as he suggested they go shower, dress in their matching BDUs, and head into town together.

They did actually have fun — legal fun — going to the open air market to purchase trinkets, sampling the fare at a cafe nearby, and enjoying some of the allowed local entertainment. They had returned to base camp when John’s leave was officially over; both of them exhausted from the lack of sleep of the night before and were in their bunks sound asleep hours before the mandatory lights out.

Of course with the breaking down of the camp, its move to and set up outside Rafhā’, the two of them hadn’t the time to talk about the night of Reese’s leave.

At the ending of their second work day, Finch had returned to their tent with Reese. John had stowed his rifle, then rushed back out needing to make a trip to the latrines. In those few seconds before Reese took off they both had agreed to meet at the mess tent in fifteen minutes.

Harold had been looking over some blueprints before he turned around intending to head out of the tent for chow, but instead had turned face first into John’s chest.

John had grabbed onto Finch’s arms to keep him from falling backwards when Harold’s upper body actually bounced off John’s chest and stomach. When Finch was steady on his feet John had let go of the older man’s arms and put his hands on either side of Harold’s face.

The tall young private had then lowered his head to kiss a shocked and unresponsive Finch. John lifted his head back up just enough to look directly into Harold’s eyes, “I’m sober and I sure as hell know who I want. I want you Harold!” then pressed his lips to the older man’s once more.

Finch couldn’t resist Temptation any longer and they had ended up on Reese’s bunk wearing nothing but their boxers and tees. Harold had ended up on top of John this time holding the young man’s hands above his head. Looking into those innocent hazel eyes, Harold had sighed in defeat, “You win. I can’t fight this any longer. But, we take things slow.” He had let go of John’s hands briefly to free them both, grinding his erection against John’s while they kissed and kissed each other until they both climaxed messily between their bodies.

And Finch had gone slowly with his eager young lover. In the following weeks, Harold tutored John by example the best ways to pleasure your male partner. First he had showed the eager pupil how to use hands — how to stroke, where to touch — and then how to use mouth and tongue — where to lick, how to relax the throat, how to suck. Harold was out of practice, but his experience with Nate had all came back to him as he had swallowed John down. Lids that had been closed in ecstasy flew up; hazel eyes had opened wide as Harold drank John's bittersweet essence.

The night before they were to break camp to move to the next site near ‘Ar’ Ar John had pleaded with Harold to have intercourse. The young man wanted Finch to be his first, for Harold to make John, Harold’s and Harold’s alone. Finch had promised him soon, Harold needed the supplies to prepare John.

It was a week before Harold had attained what he needed to make John’s first time as pleasurable and safe as possible. And then their camp had been attacked.

Even though they were having sexual relations it was always after John had performed his duties first, making sure Harold was safe, even going so far as Private Reese performing his own nightly patrol before turning in.

It was on one of those nights Harold had nodded off waiting on John’s return. Finch had awakened to see Private Reese dressed in full combat gear, crouched next to the camp bed. He had covered Harold’s mouth with one hand while motioning him to be silent with the other in the low light barely emitting from the lantern now place on the floor of the tent.

In the near dark Finch had dressed in his own camouflage Reese had pointed to where it had hung, indicating Harold should wear them.

They had crept the twenty yards or so to the freshly dug yet unused trench intended for the latrines where Private Reese whispered to Harold, “Keep down.” The soldier removed the belt and holster with his sidearm, then had ordered Harold in a hushed but urgent voice, “Put this on! Use the gun if you have to. There are Iraqi soldiers two klicks north of here and moving towards us.”

Private Reese had put a hand on Finch’s shoulder and gripped it firmly, and he assured the visibly shaken man, “I’m going to protect you Harold.” Reese had then let go of his shoulder and climbed back out of the trench and disappeared into the darkness.

One by one Harold’s employees were led the same way as Harold had been by Private Reese to the ditch. When all the WFT employees were huddled in the dark hidden in the trench, Reese had motioned Harold to follow him.

Harold had followed Reese to the power box fixed to a pole next to the diesel generator. The Private had then grasped Harold by the shoulder again and in that low urgent tone as before told Harold he was the only one he trusted. Reese told Harold the men were in position and on his signal, Harold was to flip the lever up, light the whole camp up like broad daylight, and run for cover back to the trench.

Finch watched for the signal and on the two brief flickers of light from Reese’s flashlight, Harold had flipped the switch. While he had been running like hell back to the ditch, the firefight started immediately. Harold felt like he had been bitten in the arm just as he had leapt into the ditch.

The firefight was over almost before it started. The Iraqi soldiers, the ones who hadn’t retreated back into the desert, were scattered on the camp grounds either killed or critically wounded.

The Private had returned to where Finch and his men were hunkered down. He pulled some emergency medical supplies from a pocket in his combat vest and treated Harold’s bitten arm which was actually a deep graze from a bullet. “We are pursuing the other Iraqi soldiers back to the border,” Reese had panted catching his breath as he temporarily dressed the wound.

As Reese had made to leave he leaned in close to Harold’s ear speaking so only he could hear, “I promise I’ll be back. I love you Harold Finch.” Private Reese then joined the rest of his men and they left to pursue the fleeing attackers.

Another unit of combat soldiers assigned to the 11th had arrived within minutes. Some joined in the pursuit; the rest disarmed the Iraqi soldiers. They had removed the bodies of the fallen and the living were taken to be treated by Army medics.

Finch had prayed fervently John would return to him unharmed.

@@@

Everything was quieting down outside; the sporadic sound of gunfire was far off in the distance now. A PFC named Gutierrez escorted Finch back to his tent from the emergency triage the medical unit had set up. Harold’s bullet graze had only needed cleaning and a few stitches. Amazingly so far, his was the worst of the injuries sustained by the personnel in the camp; civilian or military. The surviving Iraqi soldiers who had been captured during the attack were more severely injured.

Gutierrez respectfully ordered Finch to pack up his personal effects as quickly as he could. Finch was informed when he asked what was happening that his crew and other civilian contractors were being bused back to Ad Hammam ASAP. From now on only military personnel would be allowed to set up communications within the area 100 clicks from the Iraq-Saudi Arabia border. The soldier gave Finch thirty minutes to gather his belongings and left the tent.

Finch had just finished packing what he wanted to take in his battered footlocker when the PFC returned. The truck was waiting to take them into ‘Ar’ Ar. “We have to leave now!” Gutierrez had growled impatiently while hefting the wooden trunk. Harold grabbed a pencil he had left on his desk and hastily scratched — _I’ll find a way to contact you. Have to leave now. H. Finch_ — on a scrap of paper and left it on John’s pillow. He then grabbed his duffel and shaving kit from his own cot, took one last look around, and hastened outside.

When the truck arrived in the city the civilians were taken to a hotel and given rooms there until the convoy left the next day for Hammam. The hotel wasn’t modern and the room was spartan, but the bed was clean. Finch was restless with worry not knowing what might have happened to Reese after he and the others had pursued the fleeing Iraqi soldiers. Harold didn’t think he could but had started to strip out of his clothes to get into bed and try to get some sleep when there was a soft rapping at the door. Harold rushed to open it when he heard a muffled, “Finch, it’s me.”

Reese slipped in as soon as the door was opened wide enough to let him through holding his forefinger to his lips for Finch to not say anything until Harold could close the door behind them.

Harold gently eased the door shut so all that was heard was a barely audible click of the latch and turned to face John. Reese’s face was dusty with streaks where sweat had run down and dried, his usually crisp uniform was as dirty as his face, and he smelled of gunfire and smoke. Yet he was unharmed and the most wonderful sight in the world. “Thank God you're alright,” Harold voice shook with relief as he reached out his arms towards John.

John moved into Finch’s embrace, encircling his arms around Harold’s shoulders and holding onto them as tightly as Harold’s arms were wrapped around his waist. They held onto each other like that for several minutes before Harold moved back to hold John away.

“You’re not supposed to be here, are you?” Harold asked worriedly. Before John could even answer Harold tried to turn him towards the door, “You need to go now before you get caught.”

John resisted by reaching out and pulling Harold to his chest pleading, “Not until you make me yours.” He then lowered his head to kiss Harold desperately. Harold tried hard to resist; this really wasn’t the right time or place, John’s promising career could be ruined before it even started if he didn't leave now. Yet after the misery he had felt only moments earlier not knowing John’s fate and the relief of being kissed by him now, nothing else mattered.

Harold returned the kiss with the need he had kept pent up all those months. He opened John’s mouth with his tongue to plunge it inside while sliding his hands between John's arms and his sides, pulling him close.

John felt Harold’s growing erection pressing against his upper thigh and reached his hand down between them to palm its hardness. He broke the kiss long enough to moan against Harold’s mouth, “You want me...don’t you?”

Harold smiled and groaned, “Of course I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

Frenzied hands stripped one another as they moved towards the bed until they both could stretch out, their bodies bared for the other to see. They kissed each other over and over, but not desperately this time as they let their hands now slowly learn the other’s body. Harold’s fingers ghosted over a smooth chest and pinched at hard brown pebbles while John ran his fingers through thick curling chest hair and over soft pink nipples.

Erect, weeping cocks rubbed against a belly or leg until John turned onto his back pulling Harold on top of him, “I’m ready Harold. Please?”

Harold looked down at John’s face and rubbed a thumb along his cheekbone, “Are you sure?”

At John’s insistent plea of, “Yes!” Harold stroked John’s face, “Patience my love, I need to prepare you. I don’t want to hurt you.” Harold got up off the bed to find his shaving kit from which he pulled out some lube and a condom packet.

He then spread John’s legs and knelt between them. Harold slicked his fingers and pressed his forefinger into John’s ring of muscle. At John’s gasp at the pain of the intrusion Harold used his free hand to tenderly rub over John's chest or tweak a nipple to make John feel good as he fingered and stretched John’s opening with the other. Before he would add another finger he would raise up to kiss John making sure John was okay for him to continue.

When he had prepared John as much as possible for penetration, he opened the condom packet and rolled the sheath over his own cock which was throbbing with need for release. He raised John’s long legs over his shoulders for easy access. Still he was patient and asked one more time if John was sure before pressing just the head of his cock inside.

As hard as it was to resist the temptation to push himself all the way in Harold held himself in check. He entered John gradually letting John’s body get accustomed to the stretch. Taking things slowly Harold rocked himself in and out gently, waiting until John was actually begging him to start fucking him. Harold wrapped his hand around John’s cock stroking it in time with his rapidly increasing and hardening thrusts, rubbing his thumb over the head every time he felt his own cockhead hit John’s prostate.

Sweat was pouring down Harold’s face as he worked strenuously to give John some pleasure while trying to hold back his own release until John climaxed. When he felt John’s opening tighten around him he held himself still while stroking John’s cock. John gasped out, “Harold, I’m...ngh...oh fuck!” before spilling over Harold’s hand.

Harold let go, used both hands to grip John’s hips and thrust into John as deep as he could several times. His body shook as his balls drew up and spilled his own release, before he collapsed against John’s chest.

When the endorphin high ebbed and Harold could move he pulled out, removed the condom, and tossed it in the trash as he went into the bath to bring back wet clothes to clean themselves up. There was no blood on the condom but concerned nonetheless Harold asked John, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

John reached out and pulled Harold close to lie down next to him, “I’m okay. I’ve never felt better in my life.”

Harold snuggled in John’s arms and fell asleep.

When Harold woke with the sun streaming through the windows, John was gone. On the pillow were John’s dog tags. John had found a pen and paper in Harold’s room and wrote:

_Thank you, Harold. I’m yours now. I’ll get these back from you when we meet again. I love you._

~~*~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold lets John go.
> 
> This chapter ended up so huge  
> It was originally meant to be one chapter but now it's two.  
> Chapter 4 will be up in a day or so.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysteries surrounding Harold Finch.  
> Part three.
> 
> ***Please remember this is a work of fiction. Some events, the 11th Signal Brigade, and the cities in Saudi Arabia are factual. The rest is purely fiction including people and their actions, where they were, what they did, and when.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **not a very happy chapter: sorry.**  
>     
> Finch lets Reese go, thinking it's for the best for John  
> Finch's life through the years until  
> tragedy befalls him, Harold wants to be near  
> the one person who ever loved him.

    ****

Even though Finch's injuries were minor following the attack on the encampment and treated by an Army medic, Harold had checked himself into the hospital in Ad Hammam the next day. Somehow word of the attack had reached Whitmore's ears back in the states only hours after it had occurred even before Finch himself could contact his partner. Arthur had used his connections with the higher ups in both governments to allow the company helicopter still hangared at King Fahd International to fly to ‘Ar’ Ar, and then air lift Finch along with the other WFT employees back to the port city.

Harold had been treated and held overnight at Whitmore's insistence — apparently government officials weren't the only ones Arthur Whitmore had clout with — then released the next morning.

Unfortunately in the hectic rush to get himself and the rest of his team out of the danger zone, Finch wasn't able to contact Private Reese personally.

Harold had tried several times after returning to the hotel in Ad Hammam to get a call through to any of John's superior officers and had met with failure each time. Apparently a civilian, no matter if he had been one to get said communications up and operable, didn't have the authority or clearance to use said communications to contact military personnel when said personnel were in a combat zone.

Harold had returned to New York City for a short time while WFT renegotiated their contract with the Saudis to move their operations to the southern part of the country. During Finch's brief stay, Arthur had used some of his pull to locate Private John Reese. For his acts in saving the lives of Finch, the other WFT workers, and the men assigned to protect them, Private Reese had received recommendations from ranking officers of the 11th for training to become an Army Ranger and was sent back to the states.

The two men eventually made contact through letters and phone calls. Even though after parting that night they were never closer in physical location than half a continent away, they promised each other they would find a way to meet again. But it never happened.

Finch had returned to southern Saudi Arabia, working there for the next two years. The U.S. had liberated Kuwait in the interim. Finch was in South Africa working on a contract there during Desert Storm, returning to work in Saudi Arabia when the fighting was officially over.

Reese had been transferred to Fort Benning and became one of the elite Rangers. After his first tour in Iraq with the 75th Ranger Regiment, John's first leave home to Morganville coincided with one of Harold's trips to Sweetwell to visit his father's grave before spending time with Nate and his family — old hurts long forgotten. Two years and five months after parting in Saudi Arabia, Harold and John arranged to meet at a hotel in Beaumont, Texas.

Finch had been running late driving from Sweetwell to Beaumont — Uncle Harold had to attend Harry's baseball game and its extra innings before he left town — so by the time Harold had checked in and showered, John had been waiting in the hotel's bar for over an hour.

Harold had stopped dead in his steps in the doorway causing another hotel guest to collide with him. John was no longer the string bean he remembered but the most handsome  **man**  Harold had ever seen. There were two beautiful women, one seated on either side of the dashing Ranger in his dress uniform, flirting unabashedly with the soldier and John was flirting back. Harold glanced at his reflection in the door's polished glass, turned around, went back to his room, grabbed his belongings and checked out. Finch had called the hotel after getting a room at the airport inn, leaving a message for Reese at the front desk that an emergency had arisen and Harold had to take an earlier flight back to the WFT-Dallas office.

Finch never read John's letters thereafter and avoided the phone calls having whoever answered take a message — Harold ignored those also. Soon Reese quit trying, not even attempting to talk to Harold when he made his last phone call; Harold heard John's bitter, angry words tinged with defeat even through the earpiece,  _"Tell Finch goodbye. I won't bother him anymore."_

Months later when Finch had returned to Saudi Arabia and was working in the southern city of Abha, Reese had reached out to him one last time, a short message sent through their company’s own teletext — Finch had to smile, of course John would remember how. Regardless, Harold had crumpled the slip of paper in his hands when he was alone, tears stinging his eyes.

 

 

> _Finch,_
> 
> _You were the first person who I could really trust, who made me feel wanted, who helped me be a man, who loved me. And I loved you. I always will Harold, even if you don’t want me anymore. I hope you have or will find someone who sees the beauty within you as I have, who loves you as I do. You deserve that._
> 
> _John_

The next seventeen years Harold worked on projects in foreign countries — Saudi Arabia and the countries of Northern Africa, the majority of those years — while Arthur built their communications empire on the domestic front. Their company had been nicknamed Whi-Fi (Whitmore-Finch Telecommunications) for everything the company had done to advance wireless communication. By the year 2010 they were both billionaires five times over.

Through Arthur's contacts, then his own, Finch had followed John's rise through the ranks, his acts of valor, and his steadfast leadership of the men under his command. Reese had fulfilled those dreams of the future he had confided to Harold those nights they spent alone so long ago.

Harold loved John still — he always would — and yes, even years later he sometimes regretted walking out of that bar, but he would have done it all over again. John deserved the best in his career and lovers — a beautiful wife to give him children perhaps, not a short and homely middle-aged geek of a man with nothing to offer except tons of money — the thing John Reese cared the least about. In addition, at that time an officer in a homosexual relationship would be ousted from the Army with a dishonorable discharge. The military was the only family John had ever really been able to depend on. Harold couldn't live with himself if he were the cause of John losing everything he loved.

Harold's rendezvous purely for sex stopped permanently after his night with John. He had chosen to take care of his need for sexual release on his own even though with his money he still could have had his choice of lovers, male or female. Maybe it was a foolish romantic idea — his wanting to stay faithful to John all those years — yet Finch had.

Only as time passed, Finch had stayed in New York City more and more as he aged. Without the travel and the work to occupy his time Harold became a very lonely man. Not even being part of his friends’ lives and their families filled the void. Harold still kept John in his heart, but allowed a woman into the emptiness of his life.  

Harold never was one for parties, not even in his  _‘I need to be more sociable phase in college’_. Yet, when Finch had given up his nomadic life abroad and purchased the penthouse in Manhattan, he had caved in allowing Ray and Janine to throw a huge housewarming party. With most of the guests invited to the get together affiliated with their company in some way, the night had turned into a get to know the WFT employees of the NYC office.

And why not? Whitmore was handing the reins of the New York office over to his partner and had made plans for he and his wife to return to Texas the following year. Arthur was going into semi-retirement while keeping an eye on things in the Dallas office. There really was nothing for Harold to really monitor in the NYC-WFT office — Arthur had chosen the company's executives well — but Finch appreciated his friend’s gesture. Dressing in a suit and working in an office daily wasn’t anything close to being in the field but it would give Harold’s idle hands something to do.

Of course everyone had gone out of their way to be friendly and welcoming to the legendary co-founder of WFT at first. As the party progressed after dinner had been served, close friends, even Harold’s, broke off into their own little groups. No one really intended to slight Finch but he was an outsider looking in. Of course in his mind he was the socially inept, homely wallflower once again, even forty odd years later.

Maybe that’s why when a beautiful woman, years his junior, went out of her way to befriend him that evening, he had fallen for her charms. She had long chestnut hair, an almost musical laugh behind a huge smile of rose-colored lips, and intelligent eyes. The young woman who introduced herself as Elizabeth Campbell worked in marketing at his company. Elizabeth, who urged Harold to call her Beth, had hung on every word he said, listening for hours as she kept urging him to tell her more of his adventures abroad.

For almost a year they had dated, getting closer. Harold had no illusions that he would ever fall  **in love**  with Elizabeth but he loved her enough to propose marriage. The two never were more intimate with each other than kisses and heavy petting, which remained the same even after their engagement. Beth told him she understood when Harold had prevaricated by telling her he was old-fashioned and believed sex came after the wedding vows. Even after Harold invited her to live with him in the penthouse; they had kept separate rooms at night. Eventually they would have to consummate their relationship in marriage — Harold would have to give up being faithful to the person he really loved forever — yet for an indeterminate date in the future Beth had seemed to be willing to wait to take things further physically.

Finch had loved showering Beth with gifts even though she had never asked for a thing. Maybe that is what fooled Harold into trusting her. Only Finch found out in the most horrific way that the person he was willing to live the rest of his life with wasn’t who she pretended to be.

Of all the years working in backward, sometimes war torn countries, Harold had only received a bullet graze in his upper arm that night in the camp outside ‘Ar’ Ar. Yet, it was a routine helicopter flight from D.C. to New York City that nearly killed him. A simple thunderstorm nearly took his life. There was an electrical failure after lighting struck the aircraft. The pilot managed to bring the chopper down close to an airfield but it still crashed in a copse of trees killing the pilot and one of WFT’s execs outright. Harold had survived, barely, with massive internal injuries, broken bones, a severed spine from a broken back, and second degree burns on his left side.

Finch had spent over a year in the hospital in Baltimore recovering from surgery after surgery both internal and external — the burns on his face and hands needing skin grafts. Beth had rarely visited, if ever, while Finch recuperated, she couldn't travel frequently city to city even though everyone else managed to visit him almost daily. When he was finally released from the hospital in Baltimore, Harold had been transported by ambulance to New York Presbyterian. Beth still came up with reasons not to visit but Harold had been more concerned about doing everything he could to get home.

Finally that day had come, but Harold would never walk again. He wanted to surprise Beth who had remained living in his Manhattan high-rise, so he hadn't called. Finch just had Raymond drive him to the penthouse and wheel him inside the apartment.

Harold was the one who had a gut kicking surprise though. Beth wasn’t even in her bedroom. She was in the middle of the penthouse’s living room floor screwing one of the company’s mail clerks. The young man in question had scurried out of the apartment with his clothes bundled in his arms. Finch had been crushed and ordered Campbell out of his house, immediately. The beautiful woman Harold had loved was just a facade.

Instead of being ashamed or contrite by what she had been caught doing, she had instead lashed out with viciousness, “You were an ugly little man when I met you. I could barely stand to have your hands on me but…”

Campbell had swept her hand indicating the opulent apartment, “For all this I tolerated your affections.” Once finished with her tirade, Elizabeth had grabbed her clothes and dashed to her bedroom. When she came out of the room, a suitcase in each hand she had fired one last hurtful arrow, “Look at you now. You should be locked away in a freak show, not allowed out in public frightening everyone. All the money in the world couldn’t pay me to touch you now.” Before she slammed the door closed she yelled, “You can trash or burn what I left. I fucking won’t be back! Oh by the way —  **I quit!** ”

Kensington had stood behind Harold speechless the whole time watching the tragic events playing out before him. As the sound of the door slamming had faded away Finch had wheeled his chair slowly further into the living room. Raymond had been even more at a loss for words when Harold had looked down at the rug and calmly suggested as if he were speaking to his interior decorator, “I think this Oriental needs to go, I would rather have the Persian I had originally wanted.”

Finch had then maneuvered the chair close enough to the side table on the wall where the hallway led off into the other rooms of the apartment. Harold had then picked up the receiver and dialed the security desk at the WFT building from the ornate landline phone. Harold had ordered whoever had answered the call to have someone box up Miss Campbell’s personal effects and bring them to the security desk. Finch had demanded with a hard edge Raymond had never heard in Harold’s voice ever, “Under no circumstances is Miss Campbell allowed to proceed any further into the building!”

Harold then turned the chair so he could face his friend. Finch turned up his lips in an attempt to smile but his face, especially the eyes, were as hard as his voice had been earlier. Finch then waved away Raymond’s stuttered attempt to apologize for being responsible for Harold meeting the viperous gold-digger in the first place, that he didn’t know what kind of woman Campbell really was. “She had us all fooled my friend,” Harold professed, his voice still hard edged but with a slight tremble in it also.

When Raymond had asked if Harold needed him to stay, Finch had assured the man he was fine and asked him to leave. Reluctantly Kensington left Harold alone for the rest of that day.

In the months that followed Finch had every trace of Campbell's presence in the penthouse removed. While he had the apartment remodeled to accommodate his permanent disability, Harold turned the place dark. There with no mirrors anywhere and no bright daylight was allowed through any of the windows. It was as if Harold had locked himself away like he was the monster Campbell had called him. No one could see his face, not even himself. He was the creature trapped in the tower of fairy tales, never socializing, never venturing from his cave unless it was absolutely necessary.

Harold had brought a woman from the middle east — a slip of a girl really, but trained and capable enough to bring down men twice her size to their knees, he had once hired for security when he was working in the Sudan — to the states and gave her a room there in the penthouse. To anyone not in the know, Sameen was the housekeeper, but her real purpose there was to keep people away. Only Arthur and Raymond were ever allowed into the apartment, others wouldn’t even make it through the door if they should manage to arrive on the penthouse floor.

It had been close to two years since Harold had contacted his sources to find out about John, where he was, and his latest promotion. Reese had been promoted to Sergeant Major and was stationed at Camp Eagle in Iraq until two months before Finch had made his inquiries. The Sergeant Major had put in his request for retirement; citing urgent family matters.

Harold had pushed for what further information he could, eventually finding out John’s mother and stepfather had died, the stepbrother had vanished, and John’s home was in foreclosure.

Finch had Raymond’s law firm handle all the financial details leading up the almost certain purchase of Hanging Moss.

~~~

Maybe it was an insane idea as his friends kept trying to convince him, but all Harold wanted was to live the rest of his life in peace, close to the one person who truly had loved Harold for who he was, not for his money or looks. Reese would never know or see his mysterious benefactor but it was enough for Harold to save John’s home. It was enough to know that John was near, safe, happy.

Kensington left the apartment after trying to convince Harold to stay in New York one last time. He promised Finch as soon as the thirty days was over he would handle the hiring of construction companies they trusted to start the renovation of John’s father's house.  

 ~~*~~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John makes Hanging Moss a working plantation  
> The workmen start the renovations of his father's old house  
> His mysterious benefactor moves in  
> Reese discovers the man is Harold Finch


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened in the thirty days before John has to make his decision.  
> Take on the ownership of Hanging Moss or walk away.
> 
> **Again this is a work of fiction. While some things mentioned are true, the rest is purely fiction including people and their actions, where they were, what they did, and when.**
> 
> Also my apologies for not mentioning my beta reader. Without her help, I would be a total mess. Thanks Managerie!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New farm equipment, new vehicles  
> replanting, haying, rebuilding,  
> John Reese uses the good faith payment with its ridiculous amount of zeros  
> and in the thirty days Reese has the plantation - with its crops, its buildings, its equipment -  
> almost returned to its former glory.
> 
> This chapter is really long. I just wanted to show how much has happened to Hanging Moss, well the whole community of Morganville actually, as to why John stayed on. (As if he would ever leave.) I tried to be as accurate as possible. But I have been a townie longer than Harold. LOL.

 

It was late afternoon in one of those stretches of almost cloudless skies and warm sunshine that lasted for days when John Reese drove his shiny new Chevy LTZ Z71 up the mile-plus long drive to the plantation's office. Even though the truck came with the standard option of climate controlled air-conditioning, Reese choose to drive with the A/C off and the tinted windows rolled down.

One of his recently hired workers had dropped John off in town at the local detailer. The owner of the shop had come out to greet Reese with a huge grin on his face. The man had reason to smile. He had joked, but it probably was true; with the amount of business he’d received from Hanging Moss, i.e. John Reese, in the past thirty days, he could afford to pay his eldest son’s tuition to LSU — well at least for one semester or two.

With some of the money from the cheque the mysterious benefactor had sent Noble meant to get the plantation running again, he and Reese had paid off the loans that had been taken out using the farming equipment and vehicles as collateral. Once everything was free of their liens John had turned around and traded them all in for newer, up-to-date versions paying cash for the difference. Reese felt as if he were in some futurama when he checked the cabs in four of the new tractors. They had more instruments on their dashes and computer screens mounted to the roof than what were in some of the command centers he’d seen in the service.

Of course with everything new Reese had purchased for the plantation, John had paid the detailer thousands of dollars to have the plantation’s symbol — moss hanging from a huge oak tree — airbrushed on everything.

Reese’s additional purchases included four more work pick-ups  **—** one with a utility bed for the mechanic to drive, three fifteen-ton capacity straight trucks with wagon beds, and two _Peterbilt_ conventional semi tractors — all an ivory yellow with the brown and green symbol and Hanging Moss in bold black lettering painted on the doors.

But with this truck, Reese’s first personal vehicle since the beat up Ford pickup he’d bought with his own money at sixteen, John had picked out one that was light blue. The plantation’s symbol and name was only painted in white in a small triangle of the same color below the side view mirrors.

It probably was an unnecessary extravagance; nevertheless Reese had used part of his retirement benefits to purchase it. With the deep well his silent partner had set up to make the plantation something again, John was free to use his own money as he chose. And Reese wanted this truck.

As Reese drove slowly towards his destination he watched the activity on either side of the drive. John breathed in deep the smell of fresh cut hay. This mile long stretch was treeless, not quite flat but with a gentle roll like fading ripples upon water, planted with alfalfa as far north and south of the drive as the eye could see.

Reese could barely make out the mower — just a speck in the distance — in the far northwest field. Nearer the road he could see the tractor pulling the tedder turning the windrows cut the previous day. Tomorrow afternoon it would be in the far northwest field. It would take a total of three days of sunshine before the cut grass would be dry enough for the crew working to the east to bale the western fields. This time using balers to make 1000 pound rolls. Those would be loaded and stacked in another area; the huge rolls didn’t need to be stored under a roof.

On the right to the south he watched another tractor loading baled hay. Its forklift — a square hydraulic attachment with sixteen hooks used to grab the group of eight bales left by the baler — lifted them up to carry to a waiting flatbed trailer and unloaded the bales onto it. When the flatbed was loaded it would be taken to the newly constructed Quonset hay lofts to be unloaded.

The tractor pulling the baler itself was a row behind the tractor pulling the rake, its metal tines raking the cut hay back into windrows again. The baler would scoop up the hay in the windrows, form them into the small bales held together by twin twine, and push them onto another piece of machinery. It would arrange eight bales into a square and wrap a thin rope around the larger bundle before ejecting it onto the ground.

The first thing the morning after signing the agreement, Reese had hired the best plantation manager he could find, a friend of John’s father’s back when Jonathon Reese managed Hanging Moss. Calvin Templeton was an older African-American man above the age of retirement, but he knew farming.

The first thing Templeton had done was have the neglected grass mown and cut into compost. Cal had assured John that in thirty days the fields would be ready for cutting again and with subsequent harvesting and selling the hay come fall or winter there would be a hefty profit to be made.

Even though thinking about the manager’s words reminded John he needed to check in with the man, the newly remodeled plantation office was Reese’s first planned stop on the way home.

Templeton stepped outside the door to stand on the step and whistled at Reese’s truck as John exited the cab of the Chevy, “It’s a beaut, John!”

The elder man flung an arm over Reese’s shoulder as John stepped up next to him. Cal then joked, “If you’re done fooling around with buying pretty toys, I need to speak to you about everyone’s schedule tomorrow, including yours.”

Templeton shook John’s shoulder a couple of times then turned to go back inside the air-conditioned building. Reese slowly looked out around the plantation yard before following the plantation’s manager and his boss inside.

The few times Reese had been back to Hanging Moss on leave, John had spent most of his time in the mansion or on its grounds. He had never noticed how neglected the other buildings, the ones actually necessary to the plantation’s operations, had become.

The yard now was a far cry from the shambles it had been in a month ago. The open ground had been graded, getting rid of the deep mud ruts; with new gravel brought in and leveled.

Three implement and storage buildings along with some of the housing intended for the hired hands and their families had been completely torn down.

Four huge new Quonset buildings had been erected in their place — two to house the new tractors and farming equipment when not in use; one a garage to clean and service the vehicles and equipment after long days in the fields; the last to store supplies, everything from bags of insecticides, etc. on one side to spare parts, gear oil, and axle grease on the other, everything stored in its proper place according to their hazardous materials warning.

Three new double wide modular homes had been moved in to replace the torn down houses that were located on a plot of land a few hundred yards southeast of the main yard. The two houses left standing, each located on their separate three acres of land to the northeast and down a short road from the yard, had been repaired and painted.

Cal Templeton resided in one of the two story houses with his wife and a golden retriever named Gus. Cal's wife Marta, an avid gardener even in her golden years, had all but a bit of green grass for a yard planted in flowers or vegetables.

The new mechanic, Brian Reynolds, and his family resided in the other. Brian needed to work sometimes from dusk ‘til dawn cleaning and servicing equipment for the next morning. ln addition to that, being on call during daylight hours if something broke down, his living on the property was a necessity.

Three more full time employees — three of the four hired hands haying that day — along with their families were living in the three new modular houses. There was a new and modern bunkhouse being constructed for the seasonal workers to live in that they would need to hire in the fall.

Reese looked around in satisfaction at the ivory-yellow colored buildings and the plantation logo painted above the doors of the Quonsets. This was his childhood dream, the one he had before finding out Edward was the chosen son. Hanging Moss was now his; it was once again becoming the beautiful and prosperous plantation his father had made it years ago.

Reese knew what his decision was going to be; John would let _Mr. Smith’s_ lawyer know tonight during his weekly video conference call to update the lawyer how things were progressing that he would sign those mortgage papers. The mysterious _Mr. Smith_ could move into John’s father’s old place.

John would do his best to make sure the man would have his privacy, a task that may very well prove difficult. Eyes were raised and speculation ran rampant when Reese and his lawyer Noble began spending all that money. One rumor that had spread — a rumor Reese never denied — was that John had found an investor, a silent partner, and a very rich one at that.

The thing was with all the influx of commerce and jobs that the city had benefited from because of this mystery man, the town council was ready to erect a statue of him — if they only knew who he was. And right now, even though Reese had thought the whole deal was insane in the beginning, he was almost ready to throw himself at the feet of _Mr. Smith_ for giving John the means to make all this happen

Reese straightened up, standing tall, and looked around one more time. He was almost like a king surveying his prosperous kingdom. John then shrugged and smiled a bit; it was time to go see what the boss wanted.

Even though paychecks or purchase orders were signed in the name of John Reese or James Noble, John had chosen to work just as hard as the people he had hired. Calvin Templeton might be John’s employee on paper, but here in the real world workings of the plantation, Templeton was John’s boss.

The office was the command center with its chart covered walls and five computer screens open with progress reports or schedules on them all. Templeton was sitting at his desk, and indicated John sit down in the chair across from it. Cal handed him a clipboard filled with work orders for the men tomorrow.

Everything had been programmed into the onboard computer system of John’s tractor as well as Carl’s, Carl Saunders — the hired hand driving the tractor pulling the mower today. It was time to fertilize the over three thousand acres planted in either feed or sweet corn. Really all John had to do was push or pull levers once in awhile and turn the tractor at the end of the rows. The GPS steered the tractor down the rows and the onboard computer controlled what rows to apply the fertilizer even if John started down a partial area that had been done already.

There wasn’t anything really strenuous involved except loading the sprayer with the liquid fertilizer, even that was also just a flip of some levers. The real work, although nothing strenuous or even uncomfortable, was riding around in the souped up tractor cab all day long — sunrise ‘til sunset or even later.

Not that every day was like this, some days even the new machinery acted up or something else would go wrong and Reese would fall into bed tired and sore at night.

What mattered to Reese was that he wasn’t some wilting flower of a dandy staying cool and comfortable in his mansion — John was out there working alongside the men and women in the field, as he had in the army, and they respected him for that.

The next half hour after Cal had handed him the clipboard with everyone’s job for the next day, the manager talked about the upcoming scheduling for what needed to be done in the sugarcane fields, the money crop for Hanging Moss.

John’s stepfather had run operations into the ground while pretending to oversee a farming business that he really knew nothing about. The one smart thing Blanchard had done at least was to take the advice of his foreman before the man had been forced to seek other employment on what new variety of cane to plant to replace the older problem ridden one in the fields at the time. And over the span of five years all the fields had been replanted with RSD free HoCP 96-540, a variety that loved the sandy soil in the wide vee of land pointing to where Long Sleepy River fed into the Mississippi.

The first two fields planted that first year, if allowed to grow and mature this season wouldn’t have been fit even for the compost heap at harvest time, had been tilled under and replanted with soybeans.

The following year’s sections planted with the strain would make excellent seed cane fields. Despite the amount of tilling along with the spraying of herbicides to clear the fields and the area surrounding them of the overgrowth of weeds and unwanted grasses, plus the insecticides and fungicides they had to use to get the pest infestation and plant diseases under control, Calvin was 90% positive they wouldn’t have to buy treated seed cane from another grower. Sections 1N4E and 1S2E, both tested RSD free, were going to be the first of Hanging Moss’ own seed cane stands.

Calvin got up from his chair and walked over to one of the charts hanging from the wall. On it he had outlined various sections denoting the sugar cane fields. Each one in progression would be harvested as seed cane, tilled under, left fallow over the winter, a crop of soybeans planted on it during the spring, then planted with healthy seed cane either from Hanging Moss’ own fields or another grower in the fall, and harvested the following year into billets to send to the sugarcane mill in Harbor City — twenty miles north.

John had stood beside the older man as he pointed from one colored section to the next. Two groups of five sections — ten square miles, six thousand four hundred acres total — all scheduled in cycles that would take five years to complete before repeating themselves all over again.

Templeton couldn’t guarantee what the amount of profit was to be made from the harvest of the over 5000 acres that were not lying fallow or intended for seed cane with all the variables involved, but he was optimistic that there would be a profit and Hanging Moss could operate in the black with just the money from the sugarcane the following year.

The manager had already gone over his projections what the other crops could bring in with John. The cash from the hay, corn, soybeans, and even the small orchards would pad the coffers and be enough to make the mortgage payments.

Reese ran his fingers over the chart while glancing over the others on the wall — added to what John had already been told; this new information further cemented his decision.

Calvin had been privy to the deal Reese had made. The weathered one-time field hand turned to John looking him in the eye, “Are you in this for the long haul? Or am I going to have to deal with some rich snob who only wants to make Hanging Moss his hobby farm?”

“This is my home Cal. I’m not going anywhere, come hell or high water,” John returned the older man’s look with determination etched on his face. Reese then laughed at the thought of _Mr. Smith_ being some rich snob or his wanting Hanging Moss as a hobby. You don't buy and sink millions of dollars into a run down, operating in the red, mortgaged to the hilt plantation as a hobby. “And you don’t have to worry about my silent partner. I really doubt he is a snob. Filthy stinking rich, yes; eccentric, yes; pompous, no.”

Cal offered his dark skinned calloused hand and shook Reese’s hand when John took it and chuckled, “Well if we’re going to get some work done tomorrow, we better call it a day!”

Reese made a slight detour before reaching the oak lined driveway that led to his house — the mansion. The half mile lane he drove down led to the old plantation manager’s residence, his father’s house. The house had been kept up until along with everything else it had been allowed to fall into disrepair. John wanted one last look at the place that hadn’t changed much since the 60’s when his father had lived in it.

Tomorrow or the next day, renovations would begin and the place would be changed forever. It made John feel a bit melancholy thinking about it, but it was an acceptable loss. He had gained so much in exchange.

John turned the truck around in the drive and drove slowly home. The orchard of pecan trees on the north side of the lane was faring well after the controlled fire he and Carl had started a month ago to burn away the overgrowth. It wouldn’t add much to the plantation’s buffers, but still the harvested pecans would bring in some much needed revenue.

It was only one hundred acres on the south side of the lane, but the tomatoes growing there were looking good. He had donated the acreage, the tomato transplants, and all the materials needed to the local 4-H. In exchange for their work planting, staking, pruning, weeding, and picking the ripened fruit; the kids could sell the produce to raise money.

John had brought up the 4-H project in one of the conference calls with Kensington and there had been no objections. If _Mr. Smith_ was worried that the young future farmers would impinge on his privacy, John would assure them both the 4 H-ers have orders not to trespass, to never go beyond the tomato field.

The house, its yard, and another ten acres of pecan trees were surrounded by a five foot woven wire and wood fence with an iron gate that could be closed and locked if _Mr. Smith_ thought the kids might get too curious.

At the end of the lane John turned the truck left. The fading light from the setting sun barely penetrated the canopy of the tall oak trees' branches making it seem as if it were late dusk already.

There were a few lights already on at the mansion, in the kitchen and the dining room; the cook preparing his supper and his housekeeper waiting to serve him. Reese could have opened a can of beans and been satisfied but he had rehired the cook and housekeeper his mother had let go because they couldn’t pay them their salaries.

When John went inside he took the steps of the winding staircase two at a time up to his suite of rooms to shower and change, then hurried back downstairs to eat his meal. He thanked Mrs. Mosley then dismissed her and her husband, the cook — Cook as he was called even by the missus — for the night.

Reese went into his study and turned on his computer. It took him about fifteen minutes to upload the videos he had made during the week to his laptop, just in time for his weekly eight o’clock appointment with Kensington.

The two spent the next thirty minutes talking with John going over everything that was happening in the videos and giving the lawyer an itemized list of expenditures that had come out of _Mr. Smith’s_ up front money. Which amounted to the purchase of the new John Deere 3520 harvester, three additional wagons, and two semi-trailer wagons — all needed to get the tons of billets to the mill each day.

Kensington looked to be somewhat concerned at the additional purchases, but once Reese assured him they were necessary to getting the billets to the mill as quickly as possible, the lawyer’s face relaxed, “ _Mr. Smith_ trusts you to know what you are doing with his money, and so shall I. I’ll make sure to get these videos you have sent me recorded to DVD and deliver them to my client this evening.

John could see the attorney shuffling some papers before Kensington continued, “Now another business matter needs to be concluded today. What is your decision? Are you staying on as the new owner or do you wish _Mr. Smith_ to retain ownership?”

Reese moved in close to the laptop’s camera so the lawyer could see the resolve on John’s face, “I’m staying. I’ll do my best to ensure _Mr. Smith’s_ money was not wasted. He may move into the old plantation manager’s residence, my deceased father’s former home, as soon as he thinks the house is ready. I promise that _Mr. Smith_ will have the privacy he has requested.”

Raymond Kensington nodded, “I’ll fax the loan documents to Noble’s office in the morning.

The men were ready to end their chat when Kensington cleared his throat, the concern for his client quite obvious as he asked, “Mr. Reese, Har--- _Mr. Smith_ has been one of my closest friends since we were in college and I love him like a brother, but the past few years have taken their toll on him. Do I have your word he will be able to live there in peace and solitude?”

Reese replied solemnly, “You have my word, Sir. For all _Mr. Smith_ has done for me and my home, I will stand guard at his gate armed with my rifle if I have to.”

***

It wasn’t an odd hour for Raymond to come to the penthouse, especially on the days Ray brought videos on DVD of his Skype chats with John Reese about the progress towards turning Hanging Moss into a working plantation again. It was around ten-thirty pm when Kensington arrived; Harold was in his bedroom only this time he was sitting in the chair next to the table lamp reading.

The lawyer always dropped the videos off and let Harold view them in his solitude, but this time as he turned to leave he paused to say, “Major Reese has decided to stay, to assume ownership. The title has been transferred into his name as you requested. I have already hired trusted contractors to remodel his father’s house to your specifications with as much expediency as possible. If all goes as planned it will be ready for your occupancy in another thirty days.”

Raymond drew in a breath and offered with heavyhearted acceptance, “I would ask you one last time to change your mind but I know my efforts are going to fall on deaf ears. If you need to return to New York City for any reason my home is open to you.”

Harold nodded, “I am grateful that you would welcome me into your household should things not turn out as I had planned. You have my deepest thanks for helping me, despite everything being against my best interests as you see them. You are a good friend as you have always been. I’ll never forget that.”

Raymond took his leave promising Harold he would bring the next week’s progress reports as soon as possible.

Even though Harold knew next to nothing about farming, he had been a townie in rural Sweetwell; he looked forward to watching the video updates. Some he watched repeatedly just to see John's face light up with pride.

The first time he had seen Reese in a video his heart had nearly stopped. John was perched in the cab of his brand new tractor wearing a John Deere cap its brim tipped up on his forehead, a short-sleeved denim shirt stretched across his chest, and work jeans covering his still lean hips and long legs. The former Ranger turned plantation owner was extremely proud of the tractor as he showed off all of its gadgets to the camera. 

John’s face had hardened a bit from life and his once jet black hair, what wasn’t covered by the hat, was peppered with gray. But, Harold could still see the man-child he had fallen in love with, was still very much in love with. It was as if the years of separation fell away. Harold loved the mature self-assured man he was watching in the recordings just as much as he had the rangy green soldier of twenty years ago.

Video after video showed more of the plantation’s rebirth, Reese proud and happy as he talked to Kensington. Watching the recordings made Harold pleased and content to see John that way. Finch would freely spend every dollar he had to always see the man he loved as John was in those videos.

Finch was expectant, excited even, to load the latest DVD into the player. The first forty-five minutes were of Reese recording the week's activities in the fields; fertilizing, spraying, cultivating between rows one last time before corn or cane plants grew too tall, and the haying. Harold could almost recall the smell from his youth in Texas just by listening to John describe it while he was recording all the tractors pulling the haying machinery.

There were some clips recorded by someone else of John climbing into his tractor, waving to the camera, and taking it into the field to perform whatever was scheduled to be done that day. Whenever he would make a turn near the person recording him, John would smile and wave again.

Another thirty minutes were of Reese in the vehicle Quonset recording the latest purchase, a behemoth of a machine, the new sugarcane harvester. The plantation manager was pointing out all the bells and whistles the machine had that made them chose it. There was a short clip at the end of John and Templeton with their arms across the other’s shoulder smiling into the camera, Templeton telling _Mr. Smit_ h, “Thank you Sir for everything you have done for Hanging Moss. With this bad boy behind me, we gonna put this old farm back on the map.”

The end of the DVD was of Reese speaking with Kensington when John had told Ray he was staying on at Hanging Moss. Raymond had even included their conversation where he had asked for John’s promise to ensure Finch’s life there be serene.

Harold closed his eyes while his expression became distant although his lips turned up a bit in a partial smile. John’s promise that he would stand guard at the gate rifle in hand brought back one of the fondest memories of Finch’s life; a wide-eyed private who’d jumped at Finch’s voice and pointed a rifle at Harold that first night in the field all those years ago.

As he re-watched the DVD once more Finch had been so tempted to let Reese know that he was the mysterious benefactor. Harold even envisioned the two of them in some joyous reunion when he arrived at Hanging Moss. Then he caught his reflection in the screen of the portable DVD as it darkened to advance to the next video file. John could never see him this way; never know who _Mr. Smith_ was.

***

It was over a week before the various building contractors descended on the old house. The eight days previous a road construction company had elevated, leveled, graded, and paved what had been nothing more than a mile and a half long seldom-used mud rut between River Road and the old house. There was a maintained road further east that was the go between from the cane fields to River Road at harvest time.

Not only would _Mr. Smith’s_ new home have an entrance to it separate from the plantation’s when he took up residence, but before then the various contractor’s vehicles wouldn’t have to get to their work-site by driving through the busy operations area of Hanging Moss.

The gate at the end of the lane had been closed and locked with a new one built into the fence on the north side. Not much could be seen because the same fence company that installed the gate had also erected a six foot privacy fence around the house and yard.

It was in keeping with their agreement to guard _Mr. Smith’s_ privacy that these things were done. And he did get updates from Kensington about the work being done _behind closed doors_ or locked gates. But Reese’s curiosity did get the better of him. John found that if he went out on one of the third floor balconies of the mansion — the floor of the tall mansion that reached above the tree tops —  and with the help of some field binoculars, he could actually see first-hand what was being done to the property inside the privacy fence. Gardens, fountains, and smooth stone walkways were landscaped in the yard. The exterior of the house after three weeks was breath-taking although there was little left of what the outside had looked like before.

A little over thirty days after Reese had made the decision to stay on and during another one of those warm sunny spells that made for perfect weather for a week of haying, but meant irrigating corn and cane because of the lack of rain, Reese had received word _Mr. Smith_ would be arriving.

It had been a long day laying down and putting irrigation pipe together working along with the rest of the crew before Reese had headed home for the night.

Even though he was dead tired, John was feeling restless and couldn’t sleep in his bedroom. Soft beds and air-conditioned rooms were not what he had grown accustomed to sleeping in the last twenty-some years, so he went up to the third floor. He stretched out on the cot that was in nothing more than a screened-in porch room that opened out onto the balcony.

Maybe a civilian couldn’t hear a helicopter running silent, but ex-Ranger John Reese did. He scrambled off the cot, grabbing the binoculars off the hook where they hung and went out on the balcony just in time to watch it pass by overhead, WFT visible on the chopper's side even in the moonlight.

The bird landed in a well-lit treeless area near the remodeled farmhouse. Of course, John thought; the mysterious _Mr. Smith_ would arrive in secrecy in a helicopter. Reese should have turned around and went back inside but John had to see the man responsible for his still being at Hanging Moss and lifted the field glasses to his eyes.

Reese leaned against the wooden balustrade as he watched two figures jump down, a woman and a large, very tall man. The two unloaded some luggage, a few bags, and a wheelchair.

Reese looked on as the big man gently lifted a smaller figure from the seat next to the pilot’s and into the wheelchair. John could barely make out the smaller man’s face. _No, it can’t be!_

Reese lowered the glasses, rubbed his eyes, and looked again through the binoculars while readjusting the focus. _Harold?_ Of course, the WFT that was emblazoned on the helicopter’s sides — Whitmore- **FINCH** Telecommunications. The small frail figure in the wheelchair was Harold. The mysterious _Mr. Smith_ was Harold Finch.

~~*~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Harold meet again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's life after the failed Beaumont rendezvous.  
> Reese checks into what happened with Harold after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some flashbacks from John's POV after the failed rendezvous in Beaumont.  
> Harold settles into his new home and watches John whenever he is working near.  
>  **I divided the former chapter six into two.**

 

Harold loosened his hands that had been clenched tightly to the edge of his seat when the helicopter finally settled. The weather the entire four hour flight from the company’s private hangar at Dallas Love Airport had been clear; only stars filled the night sky with not a cloud in sight. Also, the pilot Finch sat next to had logged thousands of hours of flight time in the service and as a commercial pilot plus flying Dallas-WFT’s private helicopter for the past five years; the only emergency landing the pilot had ever had to make was onto an empty baseball field after a large bird had flown into the windshield of the aircraft cracking the glass. Still it was only when the Bell 206L4 touched down on the expanse that had been cleared and leveled for a landing pad that Harold started to breath normally.

Both Sameen and Robert Parker — Finch’s personal attendant, a onetime professional wrestler whose career there ended when he had been injured in a publicity stunt — had urged Harold to sit in the passenger area with them, but for some reason even with his anxiety flying in a helicopter again he felt more secure strapped into the seat next to the pilot. He wasn’t any less terrified. It was just looking at the instruments lit up and working or watching the view before and below him had for some unexplained reason made him feel more in control.

When the luggage and the few clothing bags were unloaded, Robert opened the door Finch was seated next to and waited for Harold to reach up with his outer arm. It was the sign Finch was ready to get out. The gentle giant slid one of his muscular arms under Harold’s legs and his other under Finch’s extended arm and behind Harold’s back to lift him carefully from the chopper’s seat.

Sameen was standing near one of the arched gates built into the privacy fence waiting to open it while looking on as Robert sat Finch into the wheelchair and walked behind it. After Harold had lifted both his legs to put one foot at a time onto the foot-rests of the wheelchair, his attendant pushed the chair towards the gate and through as Sameen opened it.

The lights flooding the landing pad were turned off by remote control from inside the cockpit as the helicopter rose above the trees and headed northwest in the direction from which it had come.

Finch motioned to Robert to stop so Harold could look around. Even in the moonlight along with the tiny bit of illumination from the evenly spaced solar lights along the paving stone walkway, Harold could see how beautiful the courtyard had turned out.

When Finch had gone over remodeling plans for his friends to relay to the landscapers and architects alike, Harold had conceded to the building of the privacy fence and the gardens contained within it. Both Arthur and Raymond were concerned when Finch began hiding out in the penthouse after what had happened with Beth. If it gave his friends some peace of mind after the way they had stood by him, Harold would keep his promise to not shut himself away completely again. Finch wouldn’t lock himself inside anymore even if it was just getting out into the sunshine again in magnificent gardens hidden away from _prying eyes_.

Harold was able to wheel himself inside the house via the kitchen entrance, through the dining room/living room, the old parlor transformed into a study, and into the master bedroom on the ground floor. Sets of wooden doors that retracted between the walls when open and separated the rooms when closed had been restored to their original beauty.

The others finished bringing the baggage from outside into the dining room. A small hall off that room had two regular doors, one to the downstairs bathroom, the other the stairway to the second floor.

While Sameen went back into the kitchen to prepare them all a late night snack from the provisions they had brought with them, Robert took everyone's baggage to its owner’s respective bedrooms. He picked the second floor bedroom with only a stand up shower in its bath allowing Sameen to have the other larger bedroom with the full bath.

Finch dismissed his two employees after the three ate in the kitchen using a makeshift table, telling Robert that he could go on up to his bedroom; that Harold would be able to manage getting himself ready for bed. It would be a long day tomorrow with the rest of their belongings arriving by the moving van that had left New York City three days before.

***

From his hideaway on the third floor John Reese watched the three until they all had eventually went inside. The lights had turned off as soon as the chopper cleared the treetops plunging the area in darkness. Yet it had only taken his eyes a few seconds to acclimate and some more adjustment of the field glasses to see that Harold had motioned the taller man to stop pushing the chair and help the woman bring their things into the house. John followed the small male figure who was wheeling himself along one of the walkways while looking over the yard.

Even after all three had disappeared inside, John watched the house for another hour or so until one by one the inside lights flicked off plunging the inside into complete darkness.

Reese opened the old wooden screened door to go inside the porch room and blindly hooked the binoculars back on their hook. Only John didn’t lie back down on the cot, instead he left the room through its inner door and down the narrow staircase to another door that opened onto the second floor landing.

Reese had only to turn right and go a few steps to reach his suite of rooms but instead John went the other way towards the spiral staircase padding down the steps quietly to go to his study on the main floor.

That was Harold Finch in the wheelchair. Only what had happened to the man? Finch looked so small and frail sitting in that wheelchair. Why couldn’t Harold walk? What had happened to the man John had given heart, body, and soul to all those years ago?

Reese had never understood why Finch hadn't met him in that bar — John had been puzzled why Finch had to go to Dallas immediately; Harold was only scheduled to be in country for a few days, why would an emergency at a stateside office be of Harold’s concern? Then Finch had never returned John’s letters or phone calls after, but it wasn’t because Harold had been injured? Was it?

Reese had been so hurt and angry at first, had bitterly lashed out at the person who had taken his last phone call. Only the pain had eased over time and John found reasons to forgive or understand. What if Harold never got that teletext and thought John hated him, even now?

~~~

Reese had looked at his watch for what was probably the hundredth time since he had sat down at the bar in the downtown Beaumont hotel. Finch was already over an hour late. John had been nervous enough about meeting Harold again after being separated from him for over two years, but then the waiting had made the butterflies in his stomach even worse.

Not to mention the two women who had seated themselves one on each side of him, the kind drawn to a uniform like cats to cream, were making him uneasy too. They were the bored young wives of some business execs attending a power training seminar at the hotel and didn’t find anything wrong in some harmless flirtation with Reese. John had told them right off he was waiting for someone but they had smiled, said they should all wait together, taken the empty seats, and ordered their drinks.

So with his southern charm and the false personae Reese had perfected the past two years as a uniformed Lothario to cover up what he truly was John had flirted right back with the two ladies. Only he wasn’t what he pretended to be, Reese really was uncomfortable being around women in situations like this. When added to that, the waiting on Harold had made him feel apprehensive, like something had gone wrong.

Reese had waited another half hour before he wished the women good evening and left much to their feigned disappointment. Only that particular emotion didn’t quite amount to what John had felt when he read the message left for him at the hotel’s front desk. It was worse. Reese had felt something almost like a blow to his chest when he read it. Harold wasn’t going to make it to the hotel.

John had gone back into his room in the hotel and just sat there on the bed staring out the window. What had happened? Harold had obviously pulled some heavy strings to find out where Private Reese had been transferred to after Ar’ Ar. Reese had lost track of Finch from the morning he had slipped back into the camp unnoticed until John had arrived at Ft. Benning; a letter from Harold was already in the rubber banded bundle he received at first mail call there.

And what of their exchange of letters or the phone calls when they had been fortunate enough to arrange them? Harold's words on paper or over static filled connections had been those of devotion, of longing, of desire, and of love. Reese had read the sincerity in the words and had heard it in Harold’s voice. At the end of their last conversation only hours before, John did not imagine the elation the other man was feeling or Finch’s overpowering emotions when Harold had choked out, “Just a few more hours John. We’ll finally be together again...I love you.”

John had smiled and breathily whispered into the phone, “Goodbye Harold, I love you too.” What had happened since then?

Reese had swiped at the tears threatening to fall — Rangers don’t cry — turned on the lamp on the nightstand in the now dark room, closed the blinds, and began removing the dress uniform he had proudly put on to impress Harold. Once the uniform was neatly hung back in the garment bag that folded into a suitcase, John had stretched out on the bed and just stared up at the ceiling for hours.

When the morning sun filtered in through the blinds come morning John had been awake still staring up at the ceiling. Reese had then showered and dressed in his service uniform, packed up his things while waiting on office hours to call WFT.

John had made five unsuccessful calls to find out what the emergency had been and every time got nothing but, _‘I’m sorry Sir. We can’t give out that kind of information over the phone.’_ He had waited until after lunch hoping Harold would try to call him but the phone never rang. Then Reese had tried a tried a sixth time to call WFT. Maybe the other operators who had refused to tell him anything about Harold were away for lunch, but the lady answering the phone kindly informed him that Mr. Finch had left in the company jet that morning for Tel-Aviv and the company’s recently established Middle East headquarters.

Reese stayed all day and another night in the hotel room hoping against hope that somehow Finch would get in touch with him, only he never did. John fervently wished the fill-in receptionist was wrong, that Harold would knock on John’s hotel room door any minute. Confused and hurt with only one safe harbor left, Reese took a taxi the next day to the airfield and caught his transport to Ft. Benning, then another taking him to his next tour in Baghdad.

Reese’s tour in the Iraqi city had lasted nine months. For weeks John had written letter after letter to the address in Tel Aviv Harold had given him and made phone call after phone call when he was able to the number of Finch’s office there. The letters though never returned had gone unanswered and the messages he left as well. Heart-broken and defeated, John had made one final phone call, the bitter, _‘Tell Finch I won’t bother him anymore.’_

Months had passed and the pain of their break-up, what John had come to believe it was, lessened. Only, God help him, he still loved Harold.

Then there had been the discharge of two of the officers in Reese’s command when their homosexual relationship had come to light. After he and Harold had started becoming physical, Finch had always told him they had to be secretive lest it be discovered. Harold didn’t want Reese’s army career to end even before it started.

Reese had never found a reason to explain Harold’s excitement to see him there in Beaumont one hour then several hours later cancel a meeting they had planned for weeks for some unexplained emergency and never speak to John again. Maybe Harold had some kind of last minute understanding that he didn’t want to be involved with someone he could only be with in secretive trysts. Finch might have decided he wanted a romantic partner he could be seen with in public and that was something Harold couldn’t have with John.

That’s when Reese had managed to enter the busy communications center — one he was often on duty at — and sent the teletext to Finch from there. He had meant every word. John would always love Harold for the special man he was and really wanted Harold to find someone to love him the way John did. From that day on, although he never stopped loving Harold, John had left him alone by moving on, never trying to find where Finch was or what was happening in Harold’s life.

In the months and years after, Reese had devoted his life to his career. Tour after tour, country after country, John was married to the military.

His personal life, while he was still in his twenties, John spent some of his nights on leave in meaningless one night stands, always with women, never a man. Nameless faces and quick fucks — being with women still made him uncomfortable, even while screwing them, but John was getting really good at passing for straight.

In his thirties Reese hadn’t needed to pretend he was something he was not. He hadn’t _come out of the closet_ exactly but he had quit playing the horny straight man. His leaves in the latter years of his career John had spent either back in the states and if he couldn’t schedule trips back home he would go on daylight excursions to cities near whatever base he was stationed at the time, or just stayed in his quarters.

Reese had just re-upped for another two years, sent on another assignment to Baghdad, when he received word that his parents had died. After what he had found returning home for the funerals, Reese had then requested retirement due to a family crisis which the Army quickly granted for his twenty-three years of dutiful and heroic service.

~~~

Now here John was in his mansion at Hanging Moss, going down the stairs quietly as if he were on some stealth operation, to log onto the computer in his study trying to find out what had happened to Harold since they parted twenty years ago.

While he waited for the computer to boot up all John could think about was that the mysterious _Mr. Smith_ wasn’t some lunatic with more money than God who had spent millions giving John back his home. This was Finch. Why would Harold spend all this money to make John’s childhood dreams come true? Finch had been hurt — how and when John didn’t know — and now Harold wanted to live in peace and seclusion in anonymity. Finch could have bought an island somewhere for that. Why did he trust John more than anyone to not pry into _Mr. Smith's_ identity and prevent others from doing so? The only conclusion John’s heart was telling him was that Harold still cared about him, still believed he could rely on John to protect him after all these years.

Reese’s heart was also screaming at him and his mind was concurring, _‘you still care about him too’_. In just the few minutes he had watched Finch in the garden, John couldn’t deny he still loved Harold even after seeing the broken little man that Harold was now.

When John was able to open the web browser, he then clicked on the bookmark to a website he and Cal had been using to run background checks on potential employees. Although most of his current employees grew up in or around Morganville where everyone knew practically everything about their neighbors, the new mechanic and Carl Saunders were from Florida. Reese never looked into really personal information, only what he needed to know about the person's criminal record, work history, etc.

The site though was a fount of information — sometimes almost too much information — but if John wanted to find out almost everything he needed to know about Finch’s life the past twenty years, this was the place to go.

Reese glanced over the first thirty-three years of Harold Finch’s life, place and date of birth, the high school and college he attended. Harold and his best friend Author Whitmore starting up WFT in New York City right after their graduation from M.I.T. in 1979. Both Harold Finch and Arthur Whitmore were subcontracting their services to other companies to make a name for themselves. When their own company took off Arthur Whitmore began running the business end of things while Harold Finch worked exclusively in the field as the project manager for WFT's high dollar contracts. Whitmore-Finch Telecommunications had become a multi-million dollar business by the late eighties with two corporate offices in the states and one in London.

These were all things Harold had told John when they were together. The only information that gave John reason to pause was the reminder that Harold and Arthur had started their business adventure in New York City. John hadn’t looked the gift horse in the mouth and accepted Noble’s explanation that the client of a NYC law firm had read the foreclosure notice in a New York City newspaper. Reese had always assumed Finch worked out of the office near his hometown of Sweetwell, Texas and lived there when not abroad. Never did he think Harold’s stateside residences, even temporary ones, were in NYC. Maybe it was some kind of wishful thinking, but was it some quirk of fate that _Mr. Smith_ had seen the notice or had Finch been aware of Reese’s dilemma because Harold had been keeping vigil over John all these years?

John quickly read over the information about Harold Finch’s time in Tel Aviv and Abha, Saudi Arabia.

There was a picture from 1995 of Harold and the man John recognized as Arthur Whitmore standing in front of a private jet. The two men had their arms across the other’s shoulders smiling for the publicity picture. While Whitmore appeared to be excited and beaming with pride, Harold’s smile never reached his eyes. John recognized that look; he had seen it in his own reflection every day for months after Beaumont. _No! It’s just my imagination._

John forcefully clicked the arrow to advance to the next page and then the next. Finch had been the project manager for communication installations all over the Middle East and Northern Africa. Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia, Somalia, Saudi Arabia, Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, and south of Saudi to Yemen or Oman, WFT teams and Harold Finch were there. One city mentioned practically jumped off the screen when John read it.

Reese ran some fingers across the bridge of his nose, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Harold had been working in Dubai when John had spent a short furlough there. Reese had been in a busy market square and thought he had spied Finch talking to a vendor, all the while looking John’s way. Only by the time he had made it through the crowd the man was nowhere in sight. The vendor only shrugged his shoulders that he didn’t know what direction the man had gone. It had been ten years — John really didn’t know what Harold looked like by then — and he had believed that somehow his eyes had played tricks on him. Or had they?

John sat back up to finish going over the seventeen year history of Harold Finch’s life in foreign lands. Whatever tragedy had befallen Harold hadn’t happened overseas.

Then Reese advanced to the fourth and final page the web site showed on Harold Finch.

Finch had returned to New York in 2012, permanently, to take over the NYC office the following year.

John’s heart clenched when he saw the picture of the wedding engagement announcement photo of Harold and a woman named Beth Campbell. According to the article under the photo, the two had met shortly after Finch’s return to New York and dated for almost a year. They hadn’t set a date but planned to get married after Finch assumed executive control of WFT-NYC.

Reese advanced further down the page, clicked on another link _Two Die in Helicopter Crash_ , and nearly vomited when he saw the tabloid article and photographs. A burned and bloody, barely recognizable body had been placed on a backboard, covered by a sheet, and was being loaded into an ambulance. _The lone survivor of the crash, possibly identified as Harold Finch co-founder of the world-wide company WFT, is being transported in extreme critical condition to the burn ward at John Hopkins._

There was more about Finch’s almost miraculous survival of the crash, his release from the hospital in Baltimore and his admittance to New York Presbyterian for further rehabilitation.

Included was an article from a business magazine titled, **Co-founder of WFT Telecommunications Plans His Return as Head Executive**. _Harold Finch co-founder of the world-wide telecommunications giant plans to resume executive control of WFT-NYC after two years. Mr. Finch was critically injured in a helicopter crash which took the lives of..._

The last submission to the page was some article in a gossip rag about the engagement between Harold Finch and Elizabeth Bridges having been called off because she had been sleeping around while Harold was fighting for his life. _Harold Finch has disappeared from public view after the heart-rending breakup._

As much as it hurt John to see Harold had moved on after seventeen years, Reese was angry enough right then that he wanted find this woman and wring her scrawny neck.

It was no wonder Finch felt the need to hide away, to be near the one person in this world Harold had loved and who had never hurt him. _But how can I convince Harold that I would never hurt him, that I still love him — even the way he is now — if he doesn’t even want me to know it’s him?_

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John finds ways to work near the old farmhouse whenever possible.  
> He needs to find a way to see Harold face to face without breaking his promise to guard _Mr. Smith's_ privacy.  
>  John finds some allies.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Harold face to face at long last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John finds reasons to come to the old farmhouse whenever possible.  
> He needs to find a way to see Harold face to face without breaking his promise to guard _Mr. Smith's_ privacy.  
>  Reese has some allies.
> 
>  
> 
> **I divided the former chapter six into two.**

 

Finch awoke to Robert knocking at the door before peering in. His assistant’s face looked as apologetic as he sounded when Robert pardoned himself for waking Harold. “You were sleeping soundly when I checked in at breakfast time, I didn’t have the heart to disturb you. I wouldn’t wake you now, but it’s lunch time. Sameen fixed some sandwiches again. I thought you might want to eat something before we start your physical therapy for this afternoon. Besides the moving company called Sameen’s cell phone and the van should be arriving in three hours.”

When Finch let out a loud groan as he tried to sit up too quickly, surprised that he had slept so late, Robert rushed over to slip two gigantic paw-like hands under Harold’s arms and carefully helped him into a sit, holding on until Harold relaxed his back against the headboard.

Robert had then offered his assistance helping Finch out of bed, into the bathroom, and then get dressed, but Harold as he had the night before excused the man to go eat his own lunch and get everything prepared out in the garden in the shaded area Finch had had designed for his PT sessions.

After falling countless times at first when he had to learn to transfer himself from bed to chair, chair to commode and back to his chair, Finch could now manage to do this with his eyes closed if he had to. It was only after Harold had slipped getting back into his wheelchair from his walk-in tub — naked and wet — and had landed on the floor so hard that he knocked the wind out of himself with only an embarrassed Sameen there to help him up, that he had hired Robert as his male personal assistant.

Parker had been burned in the publicity stunt that injured him. Finch had met Robert at John Hopkins. Finch had sought out the man and offered him the job as his assistant after finding out Parker was still unemployed even though Robert had taken courses to become a physical therapist. No one wanted to hire a giant of a man whose face was irreparably marred but Harold did.

Still Harold tried as much as possible to care for himself including today. Finch had a door which opened directly into the garden from his bedroom, only he exited into his study intending to go around the front of the house and into the kitchen to eat lunch.

As he started to roll the chair past the east facing study window, he stopped short then turned the wheel and the chair sharply back to stare outside. John Reese was getting out of his truck which he had pulled inside of the east gate. Harold watched as John hopped into the back of a trailer then unloaded a miniature tractor sized riding lawnmower that was pulling something behind it. Harold rolled a bit back into the study when John got off the mower and started up the walk to the front door.

Sameen pulled the wooden doors between the living room and the study to where they were just a few inches apart after seeing Harold’s gesture to not close them completely. She opened the front door then and invited Reese into the living room.

Watching John in that video was nothing like seeing the flesh and blood man right outside the room, so close that Harold could almost touch him. It literally took Harold’s breath away, when a mixture of male musk and aftershave wafted through the partially opened doors. The voice Finch remembered had deepened with age, but it still had that soft southern drawl that Harold had listened to for all those months so long ago.

When Sameen told John that  _Mr. Smith_  couldn’t speak with Mr. Reese that she could relay anything John needed to say to him, John had looked in Finch’s direction. Harold had to tell himself to get a grip; there was no way John knew that he was in the other room. That John didn’t look defeated or his voice didn’t have a tiny hitch of disappointment in it when he put his John Deere cap back on and tipped it politely then asked Sameen, “Tell  _Mr. Smith_ I’m going to mow the yard and till between the pecan trees in the back. I’ll try to be here at this time every week. If  **he**  ever needs me for anything else just give my cell number a call. Mr. Kensington gave it to him I believe.”

Finch rolled the chair back up to the window to watch out of it when John unhitched what Harold now knew was a tiller, hopped back on the rider, and began mowing the huge front yard. Fifty minutes later John was done with the mowing and stopped at the spigot at the side of the house — the one right outside the other window of the study not ten feet away from it— to get a drink of water. With slow deliberation Reese made a show of taking off his shirt and soaking it with water before cooling his face, the back of his neck, and then his bare chest.

Harold swallowed heavily as he watched little droplets of water run down Reese’s chest and stomach to be absorbed into the waistband of his jeans. John stood there long enough for Harold to look at every inch of bared flesh. Reese’s chest was still free of hair except the thin swatches surrounding his nipples, only now John’s stomach had the muscling of a middle aged man who had kept himself fit.

Harold had seen the tattoos on Reese’s arms as John had stood in the living room in his sleeveless denim shirt — tattoos soldiers get denoting their regiment, their branch of the service. But on the John’s left pectoral was another tattoo, a scripted  **H. F.**  inside a waving banner. John stood up straight, puffing out his chest before pulling the shirt back. Reese then wet the John Deere cap and put it back on his head, nodded at the window before sitting astride the mower. John started up the tractor, brought two fingers to the brim of the hat in a kind of salute and went back to work.

Harold was still gazing out the window, long after John had disappeared behind the house, when Sameen brought a plate of sandwiches into the study. “So that’s him, huh?” she asked quickly.

Knowing the answer, she went on, “If you’re done ogling Mr. Wonderful, Robert is waiting outside.”

Finch couldn’t deny anything, Sameen had dusted the collection of photos of John Reese in uniform scattered about Harold’s bedroom plenty of times, the ones Harold had collected through the years. The ones Harold had freed from storage two days after he had tossed Beth’s belongings out of the penthouse.

Finch ate then went out into the courtyard to begin the PT sessions with Robert. It was hard to concentrate on the exercises while listening to the mower passing through the trees beyond the fence. Finally Richard laughed, “We’re not getting a thing done today, are we? Let’s call it enough for now. Besides, the movers will be here soon.”

When the van arrived Harold stayed in his bedroom while Robert and the two moving men unloaded their belongings, especially when Sameen closed the door and warned him to stay in the room, “Mr. Wonderful is helping. I couldn’t very well tell him no, could I? I’ll make sure Robert keeps him occupied moving Robert's and my furniture up those narrow ass steps. Everything that goes in here we’ll put in the study for the time being. Now stay in here and be quiet.”

When the commotion was over — the moving van gone, as well as John Reese and his pickup — Sameen came in and announced the coast was clear. All of Harold’s cars had arrived on a vehicle carrier and unloaded at the same time as their belongings from the moving van. Sameen asked if Finch would be all right alone for a few hours while they went into Brighton; a town twenty miles in the opposite direction as Morganville to pick up groceries.

While they were gone, Harold watched out the study window once more at the vehicles as well as Reese’s pickup parked along the lane outside the gate. Teenagers, maybe thirty of them piled from the cars and headed out into the field of tomato plants, gardening implements in hand. Another pickup driven by a woman pulled up behind John’s. John and the woman unloaded bales of straw which some of the eldest boys carried further into the field. From what he could see John and the woman were just casual friends but Harold found himself feeling a bit jealous regardless.  _Stop it. You want John to find someone besides you._

Finch closed the blinds and retired to his bedroom. It was barely after seven PM, but Harold was still exhausted even after having slept past noon. Also, he really wasn’t hungry enough to wait on his employees to return with the food to eat. Harold undressed and washed up from the sink in his bath. Redressed in his pajamas he transferred himself from the wheelchair onto the bed. Harold moaned a sigh of despair as he pulled his useless legs up onto the bed. He was so, so tired. Silent sobs wracked his body after he lay down then pulled himself over onto his side and closed his eyes.

Harold was moving restlessly but was sleeping when Robert checked in on him after he and Sameen had returned from Brighton. The two returned to the kitchen and spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones.

“What are we going to do, Rob?” Sameen said with her usual resting bitch face, “Harold’s still in love with Mr. Wonderful. From what I saw looking at Reese for five minutes he knows who _Mr. Smith_  really is and is still just as in love with Harold. The man had that sad puppy look in his eyes because he can’t get to his beloved master.”

“I don’t know Sam. We can’t betray Harold’s trust. But if Mr. Reese comes storming through the door determined to see Harold, I am not stopping him.”

***

Reese jerked himself awake from the nightmare — John trying to open a locked door, Harold bandaged and lying in a hospital bed, calling out, “ _John? Where are you? I need you!”_

John’s laptop was in sleep mode and he had a crick in his neck from dozing off at his desk.

John turned off the computer and stood up from the desk. He could hear his housekeeper vacuuming in the living room so he was safe from being spotted slinking back up the stairs dressed only in his sleep pants. Reese was normally up and gone before sun-up so Mrs. Mosley usually went about her housekeeping duties assuming that John had fixed his own breakfast before heading out for the day.

After Reese closed the door to his room John picked up his cell phone off a dresser and gave Cal a call. The plantation manager had expected John wouldn’t be available today knowing the reclusive  _Mr. Smith_  was supposed to have arrived yesterday, that John would have to begin tending the grounds where  _Mr. Smith_  was going to live.

Reese dressed in his sleeveless denim shirt, a pair of worn jeans, and equally worn work boots. John grabbed his truck keys and headed back downstairs. Reese pretended he had just come back from the fields for lunch. Mrs. Mosley looked at him curiously before waddling into the kitchen leaving John waiting at the dining room table. Knowing Reese didn’t expect some fancy noon meal she brought him a plate of cold fried chicken, a macaroni-pea salad, some fresh mixed fruit and a big glass of sweet tea.

With lunch done, John went out to the garage, got into the pickup and drove to the Quonset in the plantation yard where he kept the trailer on which the riding mower and tiller were already loaded. The other tractors sat too high and were too wide to drive under and between the orchard trees, but the riding mower-tiller combo were the perfect size and were the equipment he had purchased to tend the orchards. They were also the best choice to tend to  _Mr. Smith’s_  property, and to give John the perfect excuse to come inside  _Mr. Smith’s_  house, to get near Harold.

When Reese had unloaded the tractor, he went up to the door hoping he would get to see Smith. The slip of a girl he had spied the night before answered the door, informed John  _Mr. Smith_  wouldn’t see him, that she would relay any messages.

Reese didn’t try to hide his disappointment, especially since he could sense that Harold was watching him from behind the slightly opened old parlor doors. John had emphasized the  **he**  when giving the young woman his message about  _Mr. Smith_  contacting him if necessary.

As John mowed the yard he was almost positive he could see Finch watching from the window. He was so sure Harold was watching that he made a show of cooling himself down using water from the spigot outside the opposite window. Reese tried to make sure his tattoo was visible; the one he had done a month before their failed meeting in Texas. He hoped Harold would see it, see the meaning in the fact that John had kept Finch’s initials over his heart, had never had it removed or inked over.

Reese was tilling in the orchards when he saw the arrival of a moving van. Hoping he might find a way to accidentally run into Harold, John had offered his assistance in carrying furniture and moving boxes into the house. Unfortunately the big man always managed to have Reese moving things that went upstairs or the kitchen or dining room, John never could contrive a way to get inside the old parlor or the bedroom he knew Finch had to have taken on the ground floor.

Later that evening Reese had met with the group of 4-Hers, to help unload straw for mulch around the tomato plants. John could see the figure watching from the tall window, but had pretended he wasn’t looking back while joking and laughing with Angie. Angie was a farm girl who has been married to Morganville High School’s biology teacher for the past twelve years. She had gone back to work for John, bored with just being a housewife after her youngest child had started first grade.

After the blinds had closed and John couldn’t see Harold in the window anymore, he had left Angie to run herd on the teenagers and returned to the mansion.

For the next week Reese found any excuse to show up on the front porch of the old house, working on the fence or in the front yard, or tending to the pecan trees in back. He even brought vegetables Mrs. Templeton shared from her garden. When the sweet corn was ready for picking John brought some fresh and frozen corn — whole ears, niblets, or Mrs. Mosley's special frozen cream corn recipe that she had put up. Each and every time either the young woman, Sameen, or the big man, Robert, had answered the door profusely thanking John for the gifts of food but never allowed John to see  _Mr. Smith_.

When it was time to mow and till again, Reese had knocked at the door and was once more met by Sameen. John could feel Harold watching him again, but when Sameen had started to repeat her usual her spiel about giving  _Mr. Smith_  Reese's message she had smiled, inclined her head in the direction of the door, and winked. John now had an ally of sorts.

Reese had mowed, tilled, and loaded the mower and tiller back onto the trailer. But instead of climbing into the truck cab after John opened the driver’s door, he slammed it shut and strode with determination back to the front door of the house.

Robert was standing in the kitchen doorway, looked at Reese as Sameen let him in, gave John a thumb’s up and turned to go back into the kitchen. Sameen meanwhile protested loudly about John just barging in, but moved aside while giving him that conspiratorial wink once more.

John shoved past her, mouthing “Thank you,” as he opened the study doors and came face to face with Harold Finch for the first time in almost two decades.

Harold made a startled noise, before desperately begging, “John...please go! Please just go. I don’t want you to see me like this!” Reese caught the arms of the wheelchair preventing Harold from trying to back away, to hide his face from John.

John curbed his frustration and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. Swallowing down the emotion now welling up in his throat, John softly pleaded, “Harold, look up at me. Please, can you just do that? Can you trust me now?”

Harold didn’t lift his head, just shook it to mean no, and choked out another, “Please John, just go.”

John placed his left hand on Harold’s right shoulder and gave it a gentle reassuring squeeze. “All right, if you can’t look at me at least hear me out.”

Finch was quiet and John took Harold’s silence as an affirmative.

John breathed in and sighed, “You needed someone to look out for your best interests, to protect your privacy, to make sure no would be able to get to you and hurt you the way that woman did. You chose me. And I’ll defend your physical or emotional safety to the death if I have to.”

Reese paused then continued, “Only you need to know that I still love you. But I'm not that little boy who was afraid you didn't want him anymore. I know now you wanted me. I also guessed that you figured you were doing me a kindness. That I was too young and naïve to understand what love between two men would mean to the world. Well you were wrong Harold. I knew...and I didn't care. I loved you enough to be cast out from the Army. I loved you enough to fight for you."

Reese lowered himself to his knees in front of the chair and reached out to lift Harold’s chin up so Harold could look at the sincerity in eyes. John spoke with a fierceness that surprised him. “You wouldn’t let me fight for you then, but I’m going to fight for you now. I love you and I know you still love me.”

John moved his fingers from Finch’s chin and lightly traced a mottled mark under Harold’s jaw.

Harold eyes darted back and forth as he returned John’s intent gaze. Harold then closed his eyes and pleaded, “I can’t let you. I can’t let you waste your life on a cripple. Please John, if you really love me just go.”

John sighed, and then stood up. “Okay. I’ll leave now, but I’m not going to give up. I’ll be back tomorrow and the next day and the next.” Before John turned to go he bent to kiss Harold’s forehead and murmured, “I love you Harold Finch. Always!”

Harold heard the closing of doors and the start of the truck engine a few minutes later. Tears welled up in his eyes as he croaked out, “I love you too John Reese. Always!”

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold can't shut John Reese out.  
> The persistent man keeps sticking his foot in the door  
> every time Harold tries to close it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude of sorts

I am working on the final chapters, just don't know if I will be able to finish right away. If I have some readers who just can't wait I will try like hell to finish.

It's just it's hard for me to write physically right now. But I will if there is interest. 

 

 

A/N I did finish this story. Took me a year to do it, but it is now complete.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is not in this alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beth Campbell had better stay well clear of Morganville, La.  
> John's first campaign to get through to a mule-headed Harold Finch.  
> Dinner at the mansion.

 

Harold wheeled the chair close to the window and used the fingers of his right hand to lift a slat in the blinds just enough to watch Reese turn the vehicles around. He peered through the gap while John drove the truck and trailer far enough out into the lane to be able to close then lock up the gate.

Finch had followed John’s long strides so many times in the past week to have noticed that it only took a scant eight steps for him to traverse the length of the truck-trailer combo, only one if he turned to retrieve something from the truck bed. John moved with a confident step that ate up the distance from driveway to doorstep. No matter the purpose of his visits Reese had always faced straight ahead and kept his head held high — a man who was confident in where he was headed and what he was going to do.

Only now John kept his head down, his long strides reduced to barely putting one foot in front of the other. Reese closed and locked the gate like he was some kind of automaton not even lifting his head once to glance back towards the house or the window Finch was seated next to.

Reese returned to the driver’s side door the same way he had trudged over to the gate, with feet almost dragging. Harold’s view was blocked by the pickup’s cab, but there was no mistaking John reaching out with extended arms to grasp the sill of the opened truck window and shaking his bent head.

John eventually stood back up straight without looking up and moved sideways to adjust something in the truck bed. Once satisfied he did look up, just for the briefest of moments, before reaching for the driver’s door to open it before getting back into the cab. Within seconds the truck retreated east up the lane and was out of sight a minute later.

Finch took his hand away from the blinds then and turned his wheelchair around. He caught the expression on John’s face for just a split second; there wasn’t the pity or the forced blankness that didn’t quite cover up the shock or horror that people felt seeing Finch following the crash — even after Harold having had numerous surgeries.

No, John’s face was filled with sorrow; there was a deep sadness in his eyes that made Harold’s chest ache. There was no censure, no anger towards Harold but instead anger for the situation. It was as if John had simply had the conversation they were supposed to deal with twenty years ago when Harold stood the younger man up at the bar.

John’s heart wasn’t taken by someone else. He wasn’t looking at Finch with regret, he wasn’t cringing with horror or disgust after seeing the man Harold was now. Instead, Harold saw only love, compassion, and a burning desire to help. It was an expression Harold remembered well. He had seen it on the face of a young besotted soldier every day for weeks all those years ago.

That loving expression vanished only after Harold once again admonished John. Harold kept feeling responsible for John’s happiness, as if Harold had to make the hard decisions for John now because John was either too beholden or too much in love with the Harold of years ago to make the right choice. Did Harold really have the power to take John’s right to his own free will out of John’s hands again?

Harold was only trying to do what he thought was best for John Reese. Why was it so hard to allow the man — for John was not only an adult but he was most certainly a man — to make his own way in life, make his own mistakes and decisions? Harold insisted that John allow Finch his privacy, his obstinacy, his presumptions. Why wasn’t John deserving of the same respect?

Yet every time Harold looked at the man all sense fled from his head and the same old litany ran through it. _I’ll spend every cent I have, give you anything you want, or let you choose anyone you want — just to make you happy. Only I cannot allow it to be me, John. I’m so sorry._

Harold was buried so deep in his thoughts that he didn’t hear Sameen’s knock at the door, just looked up at his housekeeper/bodyguard as she called out his name. From the annoyed look on her face it wasn’t the first time she had tried to get his attention. She had a moving box perched on one hip holding on to the cardboard container with one hand and rapping on its top like it was a drum with the other, “You ready for me to unpack this?”

Harold blinked up at Sameen in confusion. Her stance and impatient gestures were hardly an indicative reaction to what had just occurred. Matter-of-fact the woman was behaving like nothing had happened, as if John hadn’t shoved past her to get into the study. Like she had interrupted her boss just wool-gathering not brooding over something he had foolishly believed would never occur.

Harold had watched this woman, Sameen Madani, in action — no one gets by her...ever, unless she is outnumbered, unconscious or **_allows_** it. His response was harsh because of this and maybe just a bit of a panic reaction to Reese’s declaration he was going to fight for Harold this time, “No! There will be no unpacking. We are going back to New York as soon as I can arrange it!”

Finch was nearly startled out of his chair when the box landed at his feet with a loud thud. Sameen leaned over him with a blank face but fiery eyes, “Listen here **Your Highness** , you wanted to run from New York and now you want to **run** from Louisiana. Well, you can’t run forever. No matter how much money you throw around people are still going to get close to you, get to know you, care about you.

Sameen looked up at the ceiling and blew out a breath. She then crouched down in front of the chair and continued; her words less brash, her face kinder, gentler, “You might feel like you don't deserve closeness but that’s really not for you to decide. It’s up to me, to Robert, and your friends, your real friends. You hired me to protect you, you hired Robert to get you back into as close to original physical condition as possible. And we’ve done that, but we have also come to care about you. We’re your friends; I’m your friend...Aren’t I?”

Harold returned her gaze and even tried to smile as he harrumphed, “Yes, which is probably why I am not entertaining the idea of sending you both packing right now.”

Sameen patted Harold’s leg affectionately, “We’re all friends then; that’s settled. Well, sometimes being a friend means I am supposed to tell you what’s good for you even if you don’t want to hear it. And that hunk of man meat out there is good for you. You know it but you are too damn depressed and stubborn to accept it. So let me make this easy for you; John is going to be around more and more. Robert and I are going to let it happen. We are not leaving for New York. Your health will deteriorate as well as your spirit if you lock yourself away in your castle of solitude again if we return to New York City. This is what you need; sunshine, clean air, privacy without isolation, and JOHN REESE, U.S. Army Ranger, retired!”

When Harold tried to make his protests again that John Reese deserved better than a scarred and crippled old man Sameen shook her head, “Harold, you just don’t get it, do you?”

She picked up the box and carried it to the dresser plunking it down, then turned and bargained, “Tell you what; I’ll make you a deal. We stay until fall and you give John a chance to prove himself. If by then you still don’t believe he loves you and wants you just the way you are, we leave this place for good.”

Harold Finch didn’t help Arthur Whitmore build what was the start of a billion dollar mega-company by not knowing when to secede if the situation wasn’t in your favor and bide your time until it was. So he agreed to Sameen’s terms. Harold never wanted John to see him as he was now, but maybe it was for the best. Let John see that the man Harold was now is not the same Harold Finch John Reese loved in another place and time. Let John come to the realization that he really doesn’t want to be saddled with the broken wreck that is now Harold Finch.

***

Reese drove as slowly as he could back up the lane when all he wanted to do was jam his foot down on the accelerator in his anger, his sorrow, and his frustration. Damn all those people through the years who had done the psychological numbers on Harold, especially that bitch from hell named Beth Campbell. Yes, Finch had scars now, irreversible ones from his burns and broken bones, only Harold was not some hideous monster.

Someone was responsible for Harold wanting to retreat from the world. Finch had endured almost two years of painful surgeries and rehabilitation just to be able to resume his life again. It was no coincidence that Finch had vanished from the public view when he had discovered that woman’s infidelities, but what else had she done to send a sweet, loving, and brave man into such a tailspin?

John clenched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles whitened. _What in fucking hell did that whore say to Harold?_

Reese drove into the Quonset and backed the trailer into its spot and turned off the truck’s engine. Except for the chirps and tweets of some barn swallows that had nested in the rafters, the building was silent. And there in the quiet Reese began to comprehend that proving to Finch that Harold’s condition didn’t matter to John was going to be a series of uphill battles John was going to have to fight.

Even when they had first met, Reese wasn’t so wide-eyed and innocent that John had never noticed Harold was self-conscious about his looks even back then. Now with Harold’s injuries and his inability to walk anymore, plus whatever psychological damage John was sure Campbell had inflicted on Finch, it was going to be even harder for John to convince Harold that someone as able bodied as John was serious about a relationship with a wheelchair bound partner.

Adding to the whole mess was the way Harold had always looked at John. Harold called John gorgeous and handsome when they first got together, but now it seemed that Harold thought John was some Adonis. If Harold couldn’t figure out what the gangly boy had seen in him all those years ago then the grown man’s desire must really perplex Finch.

If John had learned nothing else in his years of service, there was one stratagem of warfare he had been taught well. Sometimes battles gaining miles of ground aren’t won in minutes; they are fought inch by inch, day by day until a worthwhile victory is achieved. Well Harold was a fight worth winning if Reese could only advance one day even one millimeter at a time.

Question was what kind of battle plan — day one — could Sergeant Major John Reese, U.S. Army Ranger, retired, devise with his two new allies?

Reese quickly jumped out of the truck and unhitched the trailer in record time, then hopped back into the cab even faster when he was finished. John then gunned the pickup out of the building; the tires throwing gravel behind in their tracks as Reese drove the truck by a surprised mechanic who had watched the whole scene unfold.

The pickup’s traverse up the tree lined drive to the mansion was hardly sedate. John didn’t even bother to garage his precious Chevy before bounding into the mansion calling out for Mrs. Mosley at the top of his lungs.

“Land’s sake child! What is all this commotion about?” the housekeeper demanded, a hand on each of her wide hips. “I haven’t heard this much carrying on since your mama saw a mouse run across the dining room floor!”

Reese laughed as he almost danced up to the elder women and then kissed her on the cheek, making her step back as if checking to see if her employer had lost his mind. “No, no mice.” John feigned fright and darted his eyes around the room, “At least I don’t see any.”

John smiled a big toothy grin then at the exasperated woman who had started tapping her foot impatiently on the polished wood floor. “I need you to prepare one of your special _Welcome Home John_ meals that you always used to fix when I’d come home on leave, but the dinner is for someone very special to me. Also prepare enough for some friends of his. There’ll be four of us for dinner tomorrow.”

The old woman playfully boxed John’s ears, “It had better be for tomorrow, young man. I already have your dinner in the oven. And it will hardly feed you!”

Reese hugged the woman who at times when John was growing up was more of a mother to him than his own. “Thank you, Mrs. Mosley. You’re the best.” John had to dodge a dish towel the woman had seemingly pulled out of thin air when John added, “Can you make some of your pecan pie too?”

John hurried upstairs to shower and dress for dinner before he incurred any more of the housekeeper’s wrath.

Only when Reese closed his bedroom door he called the cell phone number Sameen had slipped to him, “It’s all set up. You know what to do. I’ll be there at seven to pick the three of you up.” John paused to hear the woman’s response. “Yes I know he’s going to be his mule-headed self. We’ll bound, gag, and carry him out to my truck if we have to.”

_“....”_

“Trust me; Mrs. Mosley is very good at keeping secrets. She tanned my hide a good one when she caught me smoking in my bedroom when I was nine. My mother never found out. Finch’s confidentiality, his privacy are as safe with her and Cook, her husband, as they are with me.”

In the kitchen of the old farmhouse, Sameen ended the call. “Get your monkey suit out Robert. We’re going to that fancy mansion of Reese’s for dinner tomorrow.”

Robert folded his arms, looked across the table at Sameen, and then nodded sideways indicating the bedroom adjacent the kitchen, “What about him?”

With a look on her face that indicated she wasn’t anything but serious, Sameen plunked a roll of duct tape with one hand and a length of rope with the other into the middle of the table, “He’s going, one way or the other.”

After Reese finished his dinner he went upstairs, but passed his bedroom to go to his attic room on the third floor. The night sky was full of stars with not a cloud in sight that John could see when he walked out onto the balcony. They would be irrigating all day tomorrow and he should turn in. Instead, John held the field glasses up to his eyes and scanned the private garden. Harold was outside sitting in his wheelchair near a bubbling fountain. It reminded John of the fountain the two of them had sat beside in Ash Shu’bah. Finch had had a replica installed in the garden here behind Harold’s house at Hanging Moss.

Reese turned to go back inside. Even though he couldn't help himself, John knew it wasn't right to be spying on the man. John stripped to just his boxers and stretched out on his cot, but as he stared up at the porch-like ceiling he couldn’t help feeling sad now after he had been so elated earlier. Finch still loved him, of that John had no doubt, but Harold didn’t believe he deserved to be happy with John. Again Reese thought of the woman Beth Campbell and how much he would just love to push her off the balcony outside right about now.

***

Finch was restless and thought a round through the garden in the twilight might relax him. His heart and mind weighed heavily on the events of the evening. Watching the water overflowing in one tier and bubbling down to the next, while hearing it splash upon the stones of the fountain was calming, but it also allowed his mind to wander back in time. To one afternoon when he was seated next to a young private on a stone bench that encircled another splashing fountain, their fingertips barely touching, when they had paused to rest in the market square.

Even while reminiscing, the scene playing out before him as Finch stared into the water's reflection as vivid as if it were happening now not twenty years ago, a glint of light above the treetops in the distance still caught Harold’s eye. Finch had an eerie feeling that he was being watched, only instead of that awareness causing Harold to be ill at ease, the sensation was somehow comforting.  

Finch eventually went inside and dressed for bed. An hour later he was settled in for the night and as Harold closed his eyes, his mind had still come to the conclusion that John would eventually give up on him. Yet, as Finch later drifted off to sleep, the heart was a different matter and Harold’s face was at peace.

***

Reese was up long before sunrise, dressed in khaki shorts, a white muscle shirt, knee high socks rolled down to the tops of his ankle high Caterpillar work boots, and of course his John Deere hat.

John and the three hired hands that lived on the plantation proper — Angie had been excused from work for the day, four children with dentist’s appointments — sat around in the plantation office drinking Cal’s chicory coffee. They were all waiting to see who the manager was going to pair up for the day and who went where, corn fields or sugarcane.

The hard work had already been done; the days spent laying miles and miles’ worth of aluminum irrigation pipes. Now all that needed to be done was load up two fuel cans full of diesel for the pumps onto the backs of the two Polaris ATVs and head out to the fields. After making sure each pump’s tank was filled with fuel, they’d start the pump’s motor, and the partners would then follow the water's progression through the pipes on the back of the four-wheeler — one driving, the other opening the gates in the pipes with a long hook.

John and Cal had discussed and decided once the plantation was making money again on its own — there was still plenty of _Mr. Smith's_ (Harold’s money John knew now) investment cash left in the business accounts, but since the plantation was already running in the black, Cal thought it best to save the rest of Smith’s dollars for _a rainy day_ — this old system would be replaced with new surge valves and PVC plastic piping. But until then the outdated ways would have to do.

Reese and Carl Saunders were teamed together to spend the day on the eastern side of the plantation riding along the ten miles of irrigation pipe next to the sugarcane fields. Tom Callahan and Keith Booking drew the corn and strawberry acreage on the south side. The feed corn ears were still developing on the tall stalks and needed inches of water per week for excellent yields come harvest time. Although the commercial sweet corn season was virtually over, their stalks still bore slow developing ears that the plantation employees were welcome to pick. As for the strawberries, the spring season wound down in April, but the plants would flower and bear fruit once more in the fall so they needed watering in the summertime as well.

Regardless of who went where it was a long day in the sun and it was a few minutes shy of seven PM when Reese and Saunders arrived back at the yard. John was hot, tired, and rushed when he checked in at the office. Reese spoke only a few hurried sentences to the plantation manager before John rushed back out the door, “Call _T &L Irrigation_. I want the whole plantation's irrigation system switched to electric pumps. PVC pipes, and surge valves before the fall. I’m sure _Mr. Smith_ will have no objections.”

Reese had planned on going to the mansion, taking a quick shower, and dressing nice before picking up his _dinner date_. As it was, skipping the shower still set off the timing of John’s _fortuitous_ arrival at the farmhouse with the dozen jars of canned tomatoes Mrs. Mosley had put up the day before. When he knocked on the door John could hear windows being opened and could smell the scent of burnt something in the smoke that wafted out.

***

The day had went by fairly quickly with the three of them unpacking all the moving boxes, which meant Harold supervising while Sameen and Robert put away whatever went where.

They had only taken a short break for lunch. Afterwards Finch had gone out into the garden along with Robert to do Harold’s physical therapy sessions. Sameen had almost shoved Robert outside yammering and complaining loudly, “You two stay outside while I get some real work done. Ugh!!! Men!!!” and slammed the kitchen door.

When the coast was clear, Sameen having gone to her bedroom to unpack, they both cautiously reentered the house. Robert had skulked up to his own room to put things in order while Finch spent the afternoon hiding out, um, reading in his study.

Harold caught himself looking out the window and at his watch expectantly after five pm. There wasn’t any need to keep an eye out for John Reese’s daily appearances now with _the cat out of the bag_ so to speak and hide away in his bedroom, so why was Harold watching for John’s pickup? Finch tried to quiet the voice in his head and deny that he was looking forward to Reese’s daily visits. Besides what was the point? It was getting late; John had had a night and day to think things through, to change his mind about fighting for him.

Still Finch chided himself in being disappointed when after almost two hours there was no sign of Reese’s light blue Chevy creeping down the lane. Harold might have berated himself even more at the relief mixed with excitement he was experiencing when he did see the Chevy pull up in front of the gate and John get out of the cab. Only having his heart leap into his throat as the sight of Reese in shorts and shirt showing arms and legs as browned from the sun as a Bedouin along with the pandemonium going on in the rest of the house, Finch didn’t have the chance to self-administer a good browbeating.

The house was filling with the acrid smoke of burnt cooking oil despite the sounds of windows being thrown open to air out the stench. Harold left the study just as Sameen opened the front door. Her eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets and her jaw almost dropped to the floor as John stepped inside holding out a box of jars, “My housekeeper canned these yesterday. I thought you might want some. They’re tomatoes from the field right out front.” John then sniffed the air, “Is something burning?”

***

Sameen reached out to take the food gift Reese had brought with both hands, her mouth agape, her eyes still wide as she stared up at the dusty, sweat streaked, and sun kissed face of the man fresh from the fields standing in front of her.

Harold didn’t miss the minute nod John gave the flabbergasted woman before she seemed to gather herself and groused, “It’s that damned stove in the kitchen. What you smell burning is our dinner for tonight. I turned my back to **it** for just a moment to get salad makings from the fridge. Next thing I know it was a scene from _The Inferno_ in there.”

John searched over and past the agitated woman’s head as if expecting to see a three alarm blaze, but Sameen interjected hurriedly, “The grease fire is out; thankfully someone had the forethought to have a fire extinguisher hung in a bracket on the wall.”

Sameen walked over to the dining room table, setting the case of jars none too gently on it, then flung her hands in the air and carped, “It’s going to take me hours to clean up in there, not to mention everyone’s dinner is ruined.”

It was then she apparently noticed Harold was in the room and apologized, “I’m sorry _Mr. Finch_. Dinner is going to be delayed for an hour or so. I’ll send Robert into Brighton to bring back some take-out from the diner there.”

Harold had his suspicions aroused that there was something fishy going on here; Sameen Madani could prepare a ten course meal in nothing more than a cast iron cooker hung over an open campfire. How in the world did oil catch on fire on one of the most expensive modern stoves available while she was cooking tonight? And what about the peppery woman’s deferential use of _Mr. Finch_? Sameen had never called him anything except Finch and later into their acquaintance, Harold; she had never addressed him with disrespect nor had she ever used a saccharine _Mr. Finch_.

When Reese invited them to dinner at the mansion with all the exaggerated Southern charm John could muster, Harold finally barked out, “Stop it, both of you! This charade is over, now!” Finch rolled his chair back into his study, turned it, glared back at the two stunned actors left standing on the stage that was his living room, and closed the double doors as forcefully as he could.

Harold watched out the study window expecting Reese to march out to his truck, angry and frustrated that their little ruse hadn’t played out as they expected. Instead Sameen opened the unlockable study doors a sliver and squeezed herself between them.

But instead of another of Sameen’s impassioned dress downs like she had given him yesterday, she walked over to the desk and leaned against the front edge. She then looked at him guiltily and apologized, “Look, we’re sorry, I’m sorry, we tried to fool you. But John didn’t think you’d accept a dinner invitation straight out. So we concocted this whole cockamamie farce thinking you might accept his offer, if nothing else just to save us all from eating that diner’s horrible food.”

Then Sameen stood and walked to stand in front of Finch, all civilities aside, she told Harold exactly which of two things was going to happen. “You can say yes. You will then dress up like a gentleman and graciously be escorted by your date to dinner. Or you can choose to be your pig-headed self and turn down the invitation. I let your date hog-tie you and then carry you out to that truck.

No matter what you decide, Robert and I are putting on our fancy clothes for a night of dining in a real southern mansion. You have five minutes to decide who comes through those doors next. Robert, who is more than willing to help you get ready or that bronzed wall of muscles out there who is just as eager to assist you even if he has to fireman carry you to dinner.”

“I don’t need five minutes. Send Robert in here if you please,” Finch capitulated quickly. Harold had no doubt about what the outcome would be if he chose option b. Even if he had to admit that deep down the thought of being carried by John anywhere excited him more than just a little, he just didn’t want to subject himself to the indignity of being slung over John’s shoulder like the proverbial sack of potatoes.

Before Sameen could slip back out through the double doors Harold stopped her with some stern words of warning, “When we get back home, the three of us are going to discuss just **who** is in charge around here.”

The response the woman gave was just dripping with politeness with a hint of innocence thrown in, “I don’t understand what you mean, _Mr. Finch_. This is your home, Sir, and we are your employees.” Sameen then smiled, winked brazenly, and escaped quickly sliding both doors closed as she retreated leaving a very irritated Harold Finch glaring at the varnished wood.

On the other side of the door Sameen looked at Robert while waving her hand towards the study, “He’s all yours.”

Reese was still standing next to the front door, twisting his John Deere cap in his hands nervously, “We blew it! Harold’s angry with all of us, isn’t he?”

John’s frown deepened when Sameen, answered, “Harold’s madder than a wet hen!” She then raced over and flung her arms around the taller man’s shoulders. “He is so fucking pissed.”

At Reese’s confused, “What?” Sameen let go and stepped back.

“Harold is angry John. Red in the face, _‘I really feel like punching someone in the nose’_ mad.” Reese only pinched his eyebrows not understanding what the woman meant.

“It’s emotion, John; a real…live…emotional response from a man who three months ago was practically dead inside.”

***

Forty-five minutes later, John parked the truck in front of the columned entrance to his mansion. Sameen let Reese open the rear crew door she was seated next to and accepted the hand John offered to help her down. Robert meanwhile opened the other door to get out and remove Harold’s wheelchair from the truck’s bed, before lifting Harold from the front passenger seat to help him into it.

John hadn’t thought about the four white marble steps that led up to the wide portico that ran the length of the mansion’s front. But with a practiced ease Robert maneuvered Harold and his chair up them towards the front door. As if on cue Mrs. Mosley opened it as all four reached the wide door with its etched glass window and door frame.

The housekeeper welcomed them all then escorted the three to the dining room while John hurried upstairs to shower and dress for dinner. She pulled out a chair at the head of the table, invited Harold to sit there, and bustled off into the kitchen. Harold was touched by the woman’s thoughtfulness by offering him the only chair at the table he could easily transfer himself into and then had left the room where others would have just stayed, try to offer awkward assistance, or thoughtlessly stare.

In a few minutes the elderly woman returned bringing baskets of various breads and rolls for the guests to partake of while waiting on John’s arrival to the dining room. When Harold went to thank her for going to so much trouble setting such a fine table, the housekeeper in return thanked him. It had been a long time since anyone in the household had entertained in this way; she was lucky to get John out of sweaty, dirty blue jeans and into a clean pair before he would sit down to devour his dinner.

Only Reese was not dressed in jeans when he finally entered the dining room. Sameen gave a low unladylike wolf whistle then grunted; her date obviously had kicked her in the leg under the table. Finch followed John’s entrance; sure everyone could hear Harold’s breath catch and his heart race.

Reese was dressed in his Ranger dress uniform, its brass polished and pleats sharp as a razor’s edge. John proudly walked over to the table and bent to whisper in Harold’s ear, “I’ve waited twenty years for this.”

For the next two hours John entertained his guests by telling them of his life in the military. Harold could recite Reese’s service exploits, awards, accommodations, and how he earned each medal or ribbon by heart but he was just as enthralled as the others hearing about them in John’s own words.

The meal in itself was excellent — batter dipped and deep fried catfish fillets, corn on the cob, skillet fried potatoes, creamy Cole slaw, and flaky buttermilk biscuits. And of course, for dessert, Mrs. Mosley’s pecan pie, made with nuts harvested from the plantation’s orchard and dolloped with a delicious whipped topping.

All too soon the evening was over and John was driving them all back to the farmhouse. Harold regretted being such a pain in the ass earlier, when tonight was the first time in ages he had thoroughly enjoyed being out.

Finch didn’t even protest when Sameen and Robert went into the house without him after Reese asked if he might speak with Harold alone.

“Don’t be too angry with them,” John pleaded on his co-conspirator’s behalf.

“I’m sorry we tried to trick you; I just didn’t think you would agree if I just came right out and asked you. I just...I just wanted you to see that I really do want to be with you. Tonight was just my crazy way of bringing you home to meet the family. Mrs. Mosley is more like my mom than my real one ever was.” John turned away from watching Harold’s face to gaze out into the darkness beyond the illumination of the yard light.

Harold tentatively reached out to place a hand on Reese’s arm, “I’m not angry with any of you now. In fact, now that the evening is over, I am sorry I acted like a jackass in the first place.” Harold chuckled, “Just don’t tell them that. I still plan on having a little discussion with Ms. Madani in the morning about boundaries.”

“John, thank you for tonight,” Harold added huskily.

Reese turned in the seat and grasped the fingers of Finch’s hand still splayed below John’s shoulder then gently pulled Harold towards him. When his face was just inches from Harold’s John waited and loosened his grip on the other man’s hand to allow Harold to pull back if he wanted. When Harold didn’t move away and simply closed his eyes, John leaned in the rest of the way and kissed Harold sweetly. The kiss wasn’t insistent or demanding of more just a gentle reassurance, _‘I’m here Harold, whenever you want me.’_

John reluctantly lifted his head when he felt Harold retreating. “It’s getting late. I better get you inside.”

Later as Harold lay awake he thought about the tenderness of John’s kiss — its promise that John would wait as long as Harold needed — and how Reese had lifted him from the truck’s seat. John didn’t hold onto him as if he were a burden John would have to bare but as precious cargo Reese had been entrusted with. Unwanted, Harold’s doubts resurfaced. Only how long would it last?

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One step forward two steps back, mother nature isn't much help...or is she?
> 
>  
> 
> **The next chapter will be the final one, just can't promise when I can finish it.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John plans to get Harold to go on a road trip with him.  
> Harold's emotions still swing back and forth like an insane pendulum.  
> John makes preparations and amazingly Harold agrees to go.  
> Gotta love Sameen's intuitions and determination to get the two lovesick fools together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it has taken me months to finish this chapter. Two hospitalizations and other problems in my life sorta kept me from even wanting to.

 

Finch was usually up sitting in his wheelchair having already taken care of his morning ablutions on his own or waiting in bed for an assist from Robert if Harold decided he needed to bathe. Only, this morning the gentle giant was lightly shaking Harold’s shoulder attempting to wake him up. Finch felt the hand on his shoulder rousing him from the dream he tried in vain to hold on to, but it escaped Harold as soon as he opened his eyes to look up into the affable face of his attendant.

Robert helped Finch to sit up before turning away to gather the clothing Harold had changed out of the night before then left draped over the wooden and leather valet.

Finch watched as the other man scooped up the clothes — slacks, shirt, and underwear — together into one bundle all the while glancing at Harold every so often as if he wanted to say something, but was reluctant to do so.

Robert drew in a breath as if he expected the worst from Harold and started to blurt out an apology, “I’m sorry…”

The big man then shrugged his enormous shoulders and backtracked, “No, I’m not sorry.  I’m not sorry for my role in last night’s scheme to get you out of this house. Not after watching you thoroughly enjoy yourself at Mr. Reese’s mansion, savor his company at dinner, then delight in the care and loving attention that John gave you when he brought us — you — home.”

The burly aide then hugged the bundle of clothing to him as if it would somehow protect him and added, “And, I am most certainly not going to apologize to you now after I watched you while you were still sleeping. It is the first time since I have begun taking care of you that I have not seen your face etched in sorrow or defeat; you were totally at peace. If you wish to reprimand me or worse, fire me, for my part in last night’s subterfuge, then I want you to know I would do it again a hundred times over.”

Before Finch could say a word, Robert opened the bedroom door a crack and made to leave, “I’ll take these to the laundry, let Sameen know to hold breakfast a bit, and return shortly if you need my assistance to help you get ready for the day. It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful morning for doing your PT out in the garden.”

“Wait!” Harold called out stopping his caregiver from leaving. “I think I’ll just wash up a bit, dress for my therapy, and join the two of you for breakfast.” Harold paused a moment then added sternly, “You can wait for me in the kitchen. We do need to talk.”   

Parker looked oddly relieved as he nodded and left to join his co-worker in the other room.

As the door closed when Parker left, Finch mouthed, “Thank you.” Harold knew he wasn’t about to fire either one of his employees for caring so much about him that they would risk their own livelihoods in an attempt to reunite John and him. Harold wasn’t going to let the two skate by Scott-free on what they were doing of course; there was still going to be a discussion about boundaries.

Only Harold couldn't deny that no matter how serious his words were or how firm he was putting Sameen and Robert in their places as his employees, his lecture to them would be a mockery.

Sameen and Robert both were more than his attendants; the two had come into his employ when Finch was at the lowest point in his life and had come to care about him as a person and now — they were his friends. And as Harold’s trusted companions all they wanted was what was best for him and that was John Reese.

Harold wasn’t going to deny it. It took all of five minutes the first day that John had showed up on their doorstep for Sameen and Robert to see it. And most of all John realized it the moment he had found out the mysterious _Mr. Smith_ was Harold. More than that John really believed Harold Finch was who John Reese still needed and loved.

Added to all this, last night was the first night in years Harold had felt truly happy. If the dinner John had invited them all to would have been just the two of them, it was the night they should have had twenty years ago — John in his uniform, a kiss at the end of the evening, and … more. Until Harold’s insecurities jumped up to bite him in the ass again causing him to pull back from John’s kiss and all the possibilities of how the evening could have ended.

Harold pulled his legs over to the edge of the bed so his feet dropped to the floor and then pulled his wheelchair close. After transferring to the chair he moved it into the restroom to use the facilities and sink bathe. Fifteen minutes later Harold returned to the bedroom and dressed in his workout clothes.

“It’s time to dress down the troops!” Harold announced to his image in the full length mirror. Until a few days ago that same mirror had been covered with a sheet. Finch’s revulsion from seeing his own reflection had diminished almost the moment John Reese had looked at him without shock or horror.  

 _I’ll decide how I am going to proceed with John later._ Harold rolled into the kitchen; the room sparkling now compared to the smoke and extinguisher residue covered disaster area it was last evening and his two friends were sitting down to breakfast already.

Finch moved to his spot at the table as Sameen jumped up to fix him a plate. Harold picked up his fork, twirled it by the handle in his fingers, waited for her put his plate in front of him, and to sit back down herself. “I believe we need to discuss some rules,” Harold asserted trying to sound firm. “There will be no more scheming, planning, plotting, trickery, or anything else between the three of you. There will be no more ultimatums from you Ms. Madani. Whatever happens between John and I will happen without interference from the two of you. Is that understood?”

Sameen nodded and snarked, “Whatever you say boss!”

Robert just shrugged his shoulders and mumbled, “Yeah, right.”

Harold knew that neither one were taking him serious — he didn’t really expect or even want them to — and right at this moment he could sense that the proverbial wheels were turning in Sameen’s head on how next to proceed in hooking up John and himself. “Good! It’s settled then. Let’s eat before our food gets cold,” Harold ended the so-called reprimand about the boundaries his employees were not to cross.

When the meal was finished, Robert followed Finch into the garden to do Harold’s physical therapy for the morning. About thirty minutes later Sameen left to do grocery shopping, but before she closed the gate to the privacy fence she shot back over her shoulder, “By the way, John’s coming here for dinner tonight.”

Robert was working on stretching and massaging Finch’s legs when he chuckled, “You want to wear a suit tonight or casual clothes? Whatever you choose, we’ll need to make you look sharp for Mr. Reese.”

Harold groaned, “I just love the way you two took me so seriously this morning. And of course I want to look my best. I’d never entertain guests while I am unwashed, unshaven, or dressed in tattered rags.”

Robert snorted, “Sure Harold…guests.” He then pressed Finch’s right leg into a deep knee bend towards Harold’s waist.

Finch grunted as Robert pushed the leg against his chest shoving the air out of Harold’s lungs. It was more of the same for the next hour, knee bends while Harold was lying on his back and again on his stomach with deep muscle massage after. Harold was sweaty and sore when they finished their session; he had never wanted a bath as much as he did right then. And Harold wasted no time after being helped back into his chair before leaving the garden and going inside to his bedroom.

Harold looked in the vanity dresser mirror. _Don’t lie to yourself Harold, you don’t want a bath to freshen up after PT, you want to primp for John._ Harold asked his reflection, “What am I going to do? I can’t let myself get involved too deeply and have John eventually tire of me.”

It would be hard to leave this place when the time came, but leave he would. Harold wouldn't return to New York City; Sameen was right, he would waste away and die there. Harold couldn’t believe he had ever thought it possible to be near John Reese and whatever person John chose to spend his life with yet not feel anything. Harold wanted John to find someone new to love, to build a life with, but Harold didn’t need a front row seat to view it all. It was different watching John from afar with numerous countries and thousands of miles between them, but to be in John’s own backyard? Harold shook his head. _What did I expect?_

Finch didn’t foresee any happily-ever-after for John Reese and himself; Harold had burned that bridge when he had left that bar in Beaumont twenty years ago. But John didn’t believe so and was determined to prove that Harold was still the one he wanted. Harold let out a long suffering sigh; maybe, just maybe, his doubts would be proven wrong by a determined John Reese before the fall. So Finch resolved to himself to enjoy the time he spent at Hanging Moss — and with John — before Harold left for wherever; he just wouldn’t allow himself to get too close to John. He called for Robert to help him get ready for tonight.

***

Reese tossed and turned the entire night; he’d slept only a few minutes, if that, because his mind wouldn’t shut off. It kept repeating the dinner and what happened later over and over like a DVD player set on auto-replay, showing the contents of a disc until someone pushed the stop button.

John didn’t imagine Harold’s look of adoration and pride when Sergeant-Major John Reese had entered the room wearing his dress uniform. Nor the rapt attention Harold had paid to the Army Ranger’s service stories even though John had no doubt Harold had kept tabs on John’s exploits through the years.

Added to that was another victory of sorts for the evening; Finch wasn’t uncomfortable with John’s attentiveness to his disabilities. In fact, Harold seemed to relish them.

And last but not least: the kiss they had shared. John sat up and pounded the mattress with his fist. _Damn it!_ Finch had wanted it as much as he did and then Harold had pulled away before John could deepen it. Reese hadn’t pushed the issue and run the risk of undoing what progress they had made. John just wished he could figure out why Harold insisted on keeping a distance between them emotionally.

John tossed back the sheet giving up on trying to sleeping and slipped out of bed to get dressed. He left Mrs. Mosley a note on the kitchen counter telling the housekeeper he had eaten a bowl of cereal and didn’t need breakfast prepared; he was leaving early and would be at the plantation office waiting on Cal.

Reese drove in the pre-morning dark and the eastern sky was just starting to lighten when he unlocked the door to the office. John had just started a second pot of coffee when the manager arrived.

Cal smiled his big toothy grin and drawled, “Someone is itching to start their morning early. That’s good. You can load what hay we still have stored onto the flatbed today before lunch time. We have a buyer up in St. Louis, a big feed and grain distributor, and you are delivering the load tomorrow.”

The two men discussed the details while it ran through the back of John’s mind how to ask and get Harold to say yes to a road trip together. Also how he could refit the semi-tractor to accommodate Harold’s disability — mainly Finch getting up into the tall vehicle and moving around inside the cab — should miracle of miracles happen and Harold agree to accompany him.

When they were finished talking, Cal hadn’t mentioned anything that he needed John to do that afternoon. Still John asked, “Cal, I kind of need the afternoon off. I want to invite a friend to ride along with me, a friend confined to a wheelchair. I need to make some adaptations to the cab of the semi-tractor to accommodate a paraplegic being able to get up and in, to move around, and ride in it.”

“Must be a very special friend,” Cal teased, his brown eyes mischievous, “for you to go to that much trouble.”

“Yes, he’s very special,” John answered without thinking.

Cal clapped a hand on John’s shoulder and laughed, “Long as he makes you happy son. I’m not one to judge. Take the afternoon off and do what you need to do.

Reese was on his way to the Quonset to hook up one of the field tractors to the flatbed and pull it to the hay barn when Sameen called his cell phone. “I won’t keep you long. Dinner will be at the house at seven. Bring dessert. Gotta go!” she informed him quickly and then hung up. _Well, I might have my accomplices give me another assist tonight._

Reese spent the next four hours loading hay onto the flatbed before tarping and strapping everything down. The whole time John spent going over in his head how he could convince Harold to ride along with him to St. Louis and back to make this delivery. Maybe he could convince Finch to spend the night at the mansion so they could leave together in his Chevy to pick up the rig and head out on the road before dawn. _It’ll be a piece of cake!_ _Yeah, right…_

Reese finished loading the flatbed shortly before noon, called the mansion to inform the housekeeper not to prepare his lunch — he was grabbing a bite in town — and drove the semi-tractor he planned to use to the Morganville truck dealership.

The two  _ Freightliner _ diesel semi-tractors John had purchased to pull trailers loaded with produce or cane were not those built for drivers who were away from home weeks or months at a time with sleeper cabs containing everything except the kitchen sink. Scratch that; John remembered seeing a photo in one of the brochures at the truck dealership of a tricked out sleeper cab—its interior a mini version of a camping trailer complete with kitchen sink.

The semi-trucks Reese had purchased were more in the class of day cabs, but had a small bunk behind the seats for the driver to stretch out and rest or sleep should delivery time keep the driver away more than ten hours. The space between the bunk and seats was so narrow that one only needed to move off the seat in a crouch, move back a few inches, and sit or lie down. And that was what John needed to modify if Harold were to ride along.

But the main problem was devising some kind of alteration to the exterior of the truck’s cab for Harold to be able to get up and into it in the first place.

No small task, but four hours later between John’s ideas and the dealership’s go-to man for customization, Kenneth Myers, the two had devised and installed the workable mechanics.

There was no getting around that Harold would need some help getting up and into the rig same as he would with Reese’s pickup or the WFT helicopter. With an added retractable step, John only needed to make two steps up while carrying the other man. The two would then be high enough for Harold to reach the added leather grip now attached behind the left side of the visor along with the factory installed grab bar to pull himself up and into the seat.

Doreen, one of the sales people and temporary guinea pig, helped them test out the system. She didn’t mind being occupied, possibly missing a potential sale, because she was thoroughly enjoying being picked up and lifted by John Reese. Even though Doreen couldn’t stop from giggling like a schoolgirl every time she was hoisted up in Reese’s arms before he climbed the steps, she was able to pull herself into the seat with John’s help easily.

Obstacle number two was overcome by removing the one piece privacy curtain and bar before installing a sturdier chrome rod, a separate heavy woven drapery hanging from chrome hooks, and a trapeze like grab bar that swiveled on a chain attached to its own hook. Harold only needed to turn in the seat, grab the bar, pull himself up, and swivel his hips around to sit down on the bunk. The trapeze bar could be moved out of the way along the metal rod when needed such as closing the curtain. John tested this one himself after feeling guilty for occupying so much of Doreen’s time.

Reese was so focused on getting Harold in and for him to be able to get around inside the truck cab, John never gave a thought where to store Finch's wheelchair for when Harold wanted to get out and move around. Finch couldn’t very well stay in the cab the whole time they would be gone. If for nothing else; Harold would need to get out of the truck when nature called.

Ken came to the rescue with his idea of altering the storage area under the cab, below the driver’s step, to be large enough to fit in a folded chair. The storage area was originally divided into two sections; one directly under the driver's side for flares, chains, straps, etc and an area under the bunk for personal items. Ken cut out the fiberglass divider to make the area one large rectangular box. It would take a bit of maneuvering if and when John might need to use or store the items — now to be kept at the rear of the box — by using the smaller door that opened up to the area under the bunk, but it would work. The wider drop down door under the driver’s side step was just wide enough to slide a folded wheelchair through.

Reese was so grateful for Kenneth’s help; Doreen’s too, that John arranged for dinners for two for both of them at a Baton Rouge five-star restaurant. Two meals at Morganville’s greasy spoon just wasn’t a deserved reward for what the two had done.

After hours of welding, scrounging for needed parts and installing them, along with a sizable dent subsequently made in his personal bank account paying for everything, John was on his way back home with only an hour to get ready for dinner. And, see what he could get Mrs. Mosley to whip up for dessert.

The housekeeper in her unflappable way didn’t say a word about the dinner she had already started that would now be needed to be refrigerated for another day. She didn’t chide John because he had let it slip his mind to tell her he was going to Mr. Finch’s house that evening. She just hurried John along to get himself ready in her stern motherly way, “Don’t you worry about dessert young man, I have that covered. You need to shower and change. You smell of sweat and … perfume? No need for you going to see your young man with you smelling like you just left a French bordello. Now scoot!”

John just said, “Yes ma’am!” then hurried up the stairs. He only hoped whatever the woman had whipped up was delicious. He was going to need every bit of help he could get to convince Harold to say yes. A heavenly tasting dessert sure couldn’t hurt.

When Reese got upstairs to his room he stripped while heading into the bathroom. Mrs. Mosley was right; he smelled strongly of Doreen’s perfume. Once in the shower John scrubbed his skin til it was pink; soaping and rinsing with his Ax body wash three times in the process. He needed every edge he could get tonight, smelling of his favorite body wash and cologne was one; even with good reason, smelling of a woman’s perfume was not.

Twenty minutes later, John returned down stairs dressed in his best jeans, a short-sleeved western style shirt that flaunted his well-toned upper body, and black leather cowboy boots with white stitched design.

Mrs. Mosley eyed him as he walked into the kitchen, did her own version of a wolf whistle and blurted out with a very unladylike, “Damn you look fine!” The elderly woman then confessed, “If I wasn’t married, old enough to be your mother, and didn’t know what team you play for; I would want you for myself.” Realizing what she had just said, the housekeeper muttered, “Oh dear lord!” and hastily turned to pick up a green bag off the small dinette table.

Red faced from embarrassment that was made worse by the cat-that-ate-the-cream grin that stretched from ear to ear on John’s face, the housekeeper quickly held out a thermal food keeper for him to take and stammered, “Here’s a fresh baked strawberry-rhubarb pie and my fresh made whipped topping. I hope your young man likes it.”

Reese took the bag from her hands and then bent down to brush a kiss over her flushed cheek before thanking her, then adding, “I'm sure he’ll love it.” John stood back up, winked, and professed, “If I were born twenty-five years earlier and wanted a wonderful wife, I am sure I would have given Cook some serious competition winning your hand in marriage.”

***

Harold, with Robert’s help, was bathed, shaved, and dressed in a suit tonight. Finch still was more comfortable wearing slacks and polos or short-sleeved button-ups, but tonight he decided to dress in one of his finest suits — a dark blue with thread-thin silver pinstripes, a plaid waist coat of various lighter blue hues with black satin backing, a creamy white dress shirt, and a tie the color of the suit with tiny sky blue diamonds.

Harold had changed his mind, opting to just clean up after his PT, before eating lunch and spending the afternoon reading in his study. It was after five when he had called upon Richard to assist him and now the two men were both sitting in the living room watching a news program on the television.

Sameen was busy in the kitchen, the aromas of roasting prime rib and vegetables cooking on the stovetop were wafting into the room, and Harold was feeling ridiculously nervous. John would be arriving in less than thirty minutes, but Harold keep looking at the clock wondering why the time never changed.

Robert got up from the sofa, tapped Finch on the knee as he walked by heading into the kitchen, “I’m going to see if Sam needs a hand. Don’t look so worried. Mr. Reese will be here; everything’s going to go great. You’ll see.”

Finch looked up and smiled tentatively as the man moved by him. The night would go well, another night spent in the company of his former lover couldn’t–wouldn't end any other way. Harold smiled again to himself. The three conspirators would make sure of that, he had no doubt.

And that is why Harold’s stomach was all tied up in knots. He had made a vow regarding John’s intransigent pursuit of rekindling their long ago relationship; as long as the former Ranger was trying to win the campaign of capturing Finch for his life partner, Harold wouldn’t throw up any more defensive walls nor would he surrender any ground. Sooner or later Reese would realize that Harold's permanent disabilities would be too much of a challenge in attempting any kind of a physical relationship and move on with his life. Harold had prepared himself for that eventual outcome, wasn’t going to allow himself to get too emotionally invested, but it was already happening.

Harold Finch had never stopped loving John Reese — time, distance, and separation for what Harold thought was for the better good for John had made no difference at all. The thought briefly flitted through Harold’s mind, “How could I have ever believed I could be truly happy with Beth Campbell even if she had loved me? John is my heart and soul, always has been — always will be.” If only things were different.

But they weren’t, and now? Now, Harold was a broken man. He had never understood why a young, virile John Reese had fallen in love with him even when Finch was whole. Or the homely little man as Harold had often heard himself called in whispers behind his back, Beth Campbell right to his face. Harold had no doubts that John would realize being with him now would be too much to overcome, foresaw that any day the rose-colored glasses John viewed him through would fall away. Finch had prepared himself for that eventuality, but it still didn’t ease the painful grip that knowledge now had on his heart.

So as Harold watched the clock and the minutes began to pass with no John Reese arriving at the scheduled time, Finch’s apprehension grew. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours since dinner at Reese’s mansion, his and John’s kiss later that evening. Yet, had something happened in the interim between then and tonight that caused Harold’s fears to come to fruition? Was John even going to show?

***

John sat in his pickup while it remained parked in the driveway, the engine idling and the smell of freshly baked pie filling the cab, for a good thirty minutes while he kept running different scenarios through his mind to get Harold to agree to go to St. Louis tomorrow on the hay delivery. In every one, Harold refused quite adamantly that his going anywhere in an eighteen wheeler was nigh on impossible no matter the improvisations John had made to the rig to attempt such an endeavor

It finally took Mrs. Mosley coming out onto the veranda, waving her hand to get his attention, then pointing at her watch and tapping her foot irritably to get John to put the truck in gear and drive it down the long tree lined lane in the direction of the old plantation house.

Reese flexed his fingers then gripped the steering wheel with purpose. No matter what objections or reasons Harold gave to why he couldn’t go, John vowed to convince Harold that he could.

Only as he drove the truck through the gate and parked it in front of the farmhouse, Reese’s gut started to clench with nervous worry. The irrational thought that Finch’s refusal to go on the delivery run and John’s failure to convince Harold otherwise was tantamount to their never being together again begun to diminish Reese’s determination.

_No! I will not accept defeat!_

John opened the truck’s door, stepped out determinedly, reached back into the cab to grab the cooler bag, marched up the steps to the front door and knocked loudly.

***

Harold felt extreme relief hearing John’s truck pull up in front and the knock at the door a few seconds later. Harold’s fears were eased, but only temporarily.

They had all moved into the roomy kitchen after greetings and inquiries about how everyone’s day had gone to sit at the table there.

The food was delicious and table conversation was pleasant, but Harold could sense John was nervous about something. Reese pointedly avoided looking at Harold or avoided speaking to him directly, instead chatting up to Sameen or Robert almost non-stop.

Harold couldn’t help but believe John had something to say to him yet was pointedly avoiding having to say whatever it was as long as he could. _Is this the night John agrees that I am right? A future for us together will never happen as John wanted it to?_

Sameen herded the men back to the living room while she started clean-up after their meal was over. Reese continued conversing with Robert, about what Finch didn't know as Harold paid no attention, lost in his own thoughts about what John was avoiding.

When Sameen came into the living room ten minutes later asking if anyone wanted ice cream to make pie ala-mode, she pulled Robert up out of his chair by the lapels of his shirt and told him they needed to make a quick run into town when the answer was a round of affirmatives.

After the two had left with a confused Robert — they had ice cream in the freezer and the home-made topping Reese's housekeeper had sent with the pie — being led by the hand out of the house, John finally looked at Harold eye to eye. _It’s now or never, you have been avoiding it long enough, just ask him!_

“I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you Finch. I have something I need to discuss with you. I just couldn’t bring myself to say anything,” John began anxiously. “I think somehow Sameen figured it out then orchestrated her and Robert’s departure so the two of us could be alone.”

John cleared his throat, sat a little straighter in his chair, and looked at Harold hopefully. “I have to deliver a load of hay to St. Louis tomorrow. I would like it very much if you would go with me. I spent all afternoon refitting the semi-tractor to accommodate your getting in or out and riding in the cab. I think it will do us both good to spend some time alone together, get re-acquainted. Please, say yes?”

Harold could swear his heart skipped a beat in relief. John wasn’t trying to find a way to end things between them. If anything, Reese was even more determined to convince Harold that his physical limitations were not a roadblock standing in the way of their being together.

“Yes, I will go with you, John,“ Harold accepted the invitation instantly, not even giving a thought to what alterations John had made or any difficulties the two of them might find putting them to the test. Harold, his plans to not get too deeply involved with John completely abandoned, was so relieved that this was not the end of the two of them he couldn’t have refused John’s offer no matter what.

Two hours later Harold was lying in the bed in John’s downstairs study turned guest bedroom dozing off with the alarm set for five hours from then.

John tried to go to sleep in his bedroom on the second floor, but ended up out on the catwalk off his third floor cot room. With a warm breeze moving through the oak trees making the leaves rustle, John looked up at the stars thanking them for the chance to prove it to the man now sleeping in his house that there are no obstacles the two of them cannot overcome to be together now.

~~*~~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise one more chapter to end things by the 1st. I want to start the new year fresh with nothing left uunfinished


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trip!!!!
> 
> Not everything goes as John hopes but even an unexpected delay has its upside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry this chapter took months to get written.  
> No excuses except I needed time to want to write again.

  ****

Harold awoke not to the soft tolling of the alarm he’d set on his cell phone leaving it on the nightstand the night before, but to a weight depressing the right side of the mattress and then to a hand, when its fingers began combing through the tufts of his sleep mussed hair.

Finch groggily opened heavy eyelids to see John’s face mere inches above his own, John’s lips turned up in a fond smile and his hazel eyes full of adoration.

Harold reached up to run his fingers lightly down a freshly shaven cheek before letting his hand fall back to his side and then mumbled a sleepy slurred, “Is mornin ready?”

John's smile widened into a teasing grin as he sat up and began pulling back the covers of the bed. Harold tried to latch onto the edges of the blanket and sheet but had his hand playfully slapped back.

“Time to get out of bed Sleeping Beauty, daylight’s wasting!” John’s grin widened even more as he teased Harold in a hushed — we don’t want to wake the rest of the household — raspy voice. Good thing there was no rest of the household to disturb, Mrs. Mosley and Cook having their own separate quarters, when John’s barely kept in check mirth broke out into a hearty roar of laughter. Finch had glanced briefly out the bedroom window, its curtains already drawn open, and upon seeing nothing but the inky blackness of early morning turned his head back to glare daggers John’s way.

But John’s laugh was contagious and Harold couldn’t stop himself from eventually chortling along with the other man. Especially after a few minutes when Harold had awakened fully and remembered John had planned with him the night before to be on the road before daylight. That meant waking up to the pitch darkness outside that came with the early hours before sunrise in order to get ready in time.

Still Harold tried to huff out, “There isn’t any daylight out there yet to waste, John!” which only made John laugh harder if that were possible.

“Sorry Finch! I was only teasing you, but the look on your face was priceless!” John wheezed out in between riotous guffaws.

Harold tried hard to feign indignance, but to no avail; there was no stopping his own howls of amusement from bursting free.

Their shared laughter eventually reduced itself to undignified snickers and snorts then to silent amused looks. Harold’s grin remained as wide as John’s had been earlier though when the other man grabbed him by the hands, squeezed gently before tugging slightly, and Harold allowed himself to be helped to sitting. John pulled Harold up while twisting his own torso around then pushing up off the mattress with just his legs to stand. Before Harold’s mind had the chance to register it happening, John had very carefully turned Harold’s body around, one large hand remaining braced against Harold’s right hip and upper thigh as he did so. Harold’s legs were dangling over the bed’s edge before John let go and moved away to bring the wheelchair closer.

When Harold made to transfer from bed to wheelchair, John didn’t hover. Instead he walked over to remove the cover from a serving tray and offered without turning back around, “I microwaved breakfast sandwiches in case you were hungry and made some of that tea you like.”

As Harold was about to go into the bathroom John turned his head and waggled an eyebrow flirtatiously, his voice still playful, “Hey Finch? If you need my help with … anything … just give me a shout.”

Maybe it was their shared humor that had put Harold at ease. Maybe it was the instinctual trust he had in John Reese and why Harold had fled to Hanging Moss from New York when his life was at its lowest point; John would never hurt him by words or actions. Harold didn't really give John that shout out, but for the first time since his accident Harold allowed someone besides Robert, Sameen, or medical personnel to see him unclothed, assist him with his toiletries, and get dressed. Even though John was there, eagerly offering his aid if needed in Harold’s getting ready so they could leave on time, John never rushed him nor impatiently tried to force his help with anything that Harold was capable of doing on his own unless he explicitly asked John for assistance.

There was the briefest moment when Harold had frozen as he had removed his pajama top — John standing close, holding the shirt Harold planned to wear — expecting to see shock, horror, disgust, or pity in John’s eyes. Only John did nothing more than run a cursory glance over the burn scars on Finch’s chest with no more of a reaction than if he were noticing that graying chest hair had nearly replaced the brown tangle John had once loved running his fingers through.

Within forty-five minutes John had pulled Harold out of bed, helped him to get ready, fed him a quick breakfast, lifted him into the cab of John’s pick-up — their bags and Harold's chair stowed in the truck bed — and was now turning his head to happily grin from ear to ear in Harold’s direction every so often as John drove the truck down the lane towards the plantation yard and their ride to St. Louis.

John’s smile was so honestly open, his happiness so genuine at Harold sitting next to him with two days of Harold all to himself to look forward to, that it made Harold honestly question his own sanity in ever believing that the man would want anyone else.  As Harold returned John’s smile with an almost shy lifting of his own lips, the right corner lifting in its peculiar quirk, John’s face lit up so much it would have been visible even without blue-red illumination throughout the cab from the dash lights.  

As Harold returned his gaze to look forward, watching the dark silhouette of the semi-tractor and its canvas covered trailer loaded with hay bales looming larger, he promised to make the most of this trip, to reconnect with the one true love of his life and put all his faith in John Reese’s love for him.

***

As the sun’s rising began illuminating the tractor trailer and John pulled the Chevy alongside it, Harold’s faith that this trip would be a new beginning for them without complication started to falter just a bit. John’s four-wheel pickup was large even for its vehicular type, but compared to the eighteen-wheeler it was now parked next to, the Chevy was Lilliputian. Harold quickly masked his apprehension that there was no way he would ever be able to get up into the cab of the behemoth semi-tractor even with John’s help with a quick, feeble smile in John’s direction.

As if John could sense Harold’s doubt he reached over to grasp Harold’s knee reassuringly. “Trust me, okay? Just wait here a few minutes while I get our gear loaded and do my pre-trip inspection.”

After another, “Trust me!”, a gentle squeeze and pat to Harold’s leg along with a wink and grin, John jumped out of the truck to begin carrying and stowing their bags along with Harold’s wheelchair in the tractor’s storage compartments.

Even though Harold’s unease was still causing knots in his stomach they began to ease tremendously as he watched John at work. John transferred everything from pickup to tractor cab with an energy and step of a man half his age. As Harold watched John’s inspection of the tractor trailer rig, John’s muscles were actually rippling in the early morning light as he checked the engine, hit each of the eighteen tires with a mallet, and checked the load tie downs. The trepidation Harold felt was slowly being replaced by something akin to desire.  

When John returned to help Harold from the pickup and lifted him from the seat and out, Harold could feel a flush creep up his neck and face. Robert had assisted him many times in the same manner, but it had always felt...impersonal. But this? Harold could feel his heart begin to race and as John strengthened his hold pulling Harold closer to his chest; there was no mistaking the quickening beat of John’s heart Harold felt there too.

Of course when John told Harold to hold tight as John’s muscular legs carried them up the three steps Harold’s pulse quickened partly because of his previous discomfiture, but there was no denying that having John carrying him in strong arms while being held against a chest hard as steel was a real turn on.

Harold grabbed for the strap next to the visor at John’s instruction and pulled himself onto the seat. John slipped the arm at Harold’s back out and down so he could use both hands to lift Harold’s legs into the cab turning Harold’s body facing forward.

Harold sighed in relief as he was now sitting in the seat of the huge truck and looking out the windshield towards the road. From the tractor’s height it seemed incredibly far down.  He mentally excused himself for being unnerved when first confronted with how large and tall the semi rig actually was, but he could not forgive himself for doubting John even for even a moment. There really had been nothing to fear. John really deserved the trust he had asked for.

And something more.

Even though some of Harold’s attention was detoured briefly as he reached for the grab bar and strap to pull himself onto the seat the rest was spent observing John’s face.

There was no disgust or annoyance in John’s expression. The younger man actually looked happy to be touching and helping Harold. Once again, Harold was reminded that John was special — extraordinary really. Everything that Beth did and felt was as far from John’s true feelings and actions as a viper was from a lion. John was a truly noble individual, not a grasping, money hungry harpy. Harold needed to remember that.

Watching the happiness on John’s face only heightened the want Harold was feeling. A want that didn’t seem to be one-sided as John’s breathing quickened instead of evening out as he remained standing on the step immobile.

The idea trying to form that Harold was mistakenly drawing the wrong conclusion to this —  that John desired him only because he wanted it to be true — was quickly quashed when Harold glanced down and noticed the slight bulging of John’s zipper. This Adonis was just so happy to be near Harold, to be trusted with Harold’s well-being and safety that just these routine touches were enough to enflame John’s own banked desire.

John leaned inside, his face only inches from Harold’s own. Harold had the distinct feeling that John wanted to kiss him. But to his disappointment John only smiled, turned his head to glance towards the floor, and reached down to pull the plastic housing surrounding the seat-belt clasp upright. John then buckled Harold snug into the harness. Regardless that John hadn’t kissed Harold there was no mistaking the huskiness in the younger man’s voice as he asked, “Is this comfortable?”

At Harold’s affirmative nod, John jumped down to the ground as if it were only inches below him not feet, then closed the passenger door and trotted merrily around the front of the semi-tractor to climb into the driver’s seat.

With his hands uselessly gripping the wheel of the still cold vehicle, John appeared to be deciding something. He kept sneaking sidelong glances at Harold. His lashes would fan over the tops of his cheeks as he would slowly blink. Once again Harold could sense that John wanted to kiss him, breach the gap between the seats in some way to get closer, then lean over while on his knees or lower his head while in a crouch to be able to bring their lips together – daring to take the chance that Harold would not pull away again. Harold wouldn’t - not now, not ever again.

After a few breathless heartbeats, John shook himself and started the engine. Harold felt a twinge of disappointment. John was a lovely kisser. Harold thought back to the awkward kisses John had first given him morphing into the ones that made Harold moan with ecstasy as they made love. Even though Harold had pulled away that night in the pickup allowing that kiss to last only a moment Harold could feel John’s kissing was as sensuous and seductive as the grown man John had become.

John fastened his own belt, put the truck in low gear, and steered it down the lane and right onto the highway. John amazed Harold with his skill in shifting as the truck sped up or slowed down. These rigs today were a far cry from the beasts Harold sometimes rode in as they transferred supplies from one job to the next twenty odd years ago, but with less skilled drivers he knew these modern tractor rigs would still lurch or jerk the same as their predecessors. With John at the wheel riding in the semi was like riding in Harold’s luxury SUV.

Both men were quiet as John concentrated on his driving along the short stretches of highway and turning onto the next until they reached the interstate they would drive the majority of the way to St. Louis.

As John drove, Harold would watch the scenery as it passed by or occasionally glance at the man sitting at the wheel and reflect. So far, John had proven himself to be a man of honor and of his word. When John said, “I want you Finch and only you!” he meant it.

Harold realized that he had been an ass all these years. A severe lack of self-esteem coupled with a pessimistic streak a mile wide had robbed Harold of years with the man he loved. Harold was determined to stop making roadblocks. From here on out, he vowed to enjoy John’s company and cease imagining that Reese was like Nathan or Beth. This was their time and Harold was going to make the most of it.

When they were finally on the interstate, time and distance flew by as the two of them talked about some of their experiences in the past twenty years like two friends catching up on old times. They both knew sooner or later they would have to address the elephant in the room: why Harold broke things off between them. But today, it was an unspoken agreement between them that they would speak of nothing that would ruin this trip.

It was well past lunch time before they realized it, with neither man watching the clock. The nearest decent rest stop that had truck parking only had a fuel station/gift shop, but no restaurant. The station did offer sandwiches, a variety of fountain or bottled drinks, snack foods, and even fresh fruit. There was also a very nice picnic area accessible to both commercial vehicles and automobiles. John fueled the truck, purchased their food, then parked their rig between two others.

Soon both men were sitting at a table eating their lunch and people watching. They couldn’t help but laugh at some of the oddest people who passed through the rest area. John started making up funny little stories about each person. Some of the make believe lives John made up for them were so hilarious that Harold was in stitches, laughing so hard.

However, the fun had to come to an end and they loaded up so they could reach the buyer’s St. Louis storage facilities before it was closed up for the night.

They made good time arriving at the warehouse with enough to spare to start the return trip home. John couldn’t legally drive the trip back in one go but they would still be halfway home before they had to stop. There was a nice resort hotel John wanted to stay at with Harold. Only that plan was derailed when they had to wait until almost ten PM for the hay to be unloaded.

The company’s hay-lift lost all of its hydraulics while being used to unload bales from another trailer. Using a regular forklift was not an option as the hay bales on the other hauler as well as their load were stacked loosely not bundled together with twine or wire. A loaner hay-lift would not be available until the next day and the feed distributor did not want to pay either company penalties for the delay.

Their solution to the problem was to have one of their employees stack the hay one bale at a time onto a pallet carried by the regular forklift while the driver raised or lowered the tines even with each layer of hay bales. When the pallet was full, the operator would drive the lift to the storage area where another employee unloaded the pallet in reverse order.

In the end, something that should have taken thirty minutes at most ended up taking three hours.

Throughout the whole delay Harold never seemed put-out having to wait hours; he actually broke the monotony by telling a few stories about some of the hijinks he and his three friends were involved in when they were in college. 

John laughed along with Harold when he told John about how he and Arthur had set the timer for the automatic sprinklers to go off in the middle of a football practice to get even with some jocks that used to hassle them them at a coffee house frequented by students from several other colleges besides MIT.

Harold’s laughter though stopped abruptly and the look on his face turned serious. He looked at John and said dismally. “We were almost expelled, sent packing. We may never have graduated MIT and started WFT. I wouldn’t have been in Saudi Arabia.” Harold drew a shaky breath, “I would never have met you.”

John slid out of his seat and knelt between the seats to lay a comforting hand on Harold’s knee with his left and cup his cheek with his left, “Only you did graduate. You did start your company. You did go to Saudi and came into my life when I needed you most.”

John leaned closer and whispered huskily. “I still do and you need me too.”

Harold covered John’s hand on his knee with his own, not denying it, his voice now gravelly with an agreeing, “I do need you, John - so much.” Their lips were a hair’s width from touching when the CB radio crackled to life, “Hanging Moss we're ready to unload your trailer. Please pull your truck around.”

John jumped and scrambled back into the driver’s seat muttering an explicit curse as he racked a knee against the shifter. For the interruption too as he looked towards Harold with a frustrated, “Sorry. We better not keep them waiting.” John started the engine and before putting the truck in gear he turned to Harold, “It shouldn’t take long but why don’t you climb in the back and lay down a bit while they’re unloading.”

Neither man had a chance to address what had almost happened until hours later, the next morning in fact. 

After John had pulled the truck and trailer around to where the buyer was unloading temporarily, he had left the cab to offer his help. It really hadn’t taken that long once the actual unloading began: Harold had done as John suggested; only it seemed like he had just closed his eyes and started to nod off when John got back into the cab and started the truck.

As John drove out of the lot he spoke over his shoulder every few words so he could focus primarily on his driving, “Got some good news and some bad news. No rooms available for miles around except for no tell motels, big convention in town, so we are going to have to lay-over at a truck stop for my driver’s requisite down time. Good news is there is one of the nicer truck stops in the country a few miles away.  It boasts having a good restaurant, a miniature department store, a game room, and even a movie theater. And handicap accessible showers if you want to take one.” John sniffed himself and grimaced a bit, “I know I do.”

Harold couldn’t see where they were going while still lying on the bunk, but after a few stops and turns between short distances of driving, John stopped the truck and turned off the engine. “We’re at the diesel island right now. I’m going to fuel her up before I find a spot to park the truck for the night. You can wait in the bunk or get back in the passenger seat while I’m out.”

Harold stretched out on his back trying to decide whether to get up or just wait where he was — after sitting up all day, stretching out was heavenly and returning to the passenger seat not appealing in the least at that moment — only John returned before he could decide. A few minutes later he was in the seat being helped by John from the cab into his wheelchair with John then pushing the chair, a leather shower bag containing clothing and toiletries slung over one shoulder, towards the commercial driver entrance to the truck stop’s interior.

Once inside, John stepped up to a counter to sign for a shower room and get the key card while Harold looked around at the sights and people about him. Harold had truly expected to see only ‘truck drivers’ but there were men, women, and children bustling about in the mall like truck stop.

The showers were modern and clean as John had said, handicap accessible. Even without John’s assistance, which Harold accepted with no reservations, he would have managed to shower with ease on his own.

Only John did ‘assist’ with hands that held on just a little too long or lingered on an arm or leg. Harold could have washed himself perfectly fine on his own, but when John stripped himself bare and stepped into the shower along with him Harold couldn’t have said no even if he had wanted to. The ability to articulate any word was impossible. The grown man — not the man-child Harold remembered from long ago — was beautiful.

Not only did the ability to utter spoken word desert him, but what was left of his mobility as well. John washed Harold’s body before picking him up and carrying him out of the shower to sit him on a wooden bench to dry Harold off with a towel.

Parts of Harold he thought may never feel again awoke as he allowed this vision of manly perfection to care for him. After John had toweled him dry then helped Harold put on a tee and briefs, he stood and stepped back inside the shower to clean himself.  

John never said or did anything of a sexual nature but as he showered he made sure Harold noticed that touching and caring for Harold had affected him.

His shower over, John dried and dressed himself before helping Harold who was still sitting there speechless and immobile.

Ten minutes later, dressed and sitting in the restaurant, Harold was able to tell the waitress his order, barely, while John sat across the table cool and collected with a knowing look in his eyes and a pleased smile that stretched almost from ear to ear.

They ate their meal with John making small talk that Harold was easily able to respond to. To anyone around them they were just two men sitting at a table casually enjoying their food and conversation.

Even after they returned to the truck it was like the intimacy in the shower between the two of them only an hour before had never happened,

Harold was exhausted, regardless, and didn’t waste a second to return to the bunk to lie down, but John seemed to have resigned himself to try to sleep sitting up in the driver’s seat.

“John?” Harold asked then repeated the name a little louder when there was no answer from the front.

John responded then with a mumbled, “Yeah, Finch?” as if he were already nodding off.

“There’s no need for you to try and sleep sitting up. It looks dreadfully uncomfortable. I can make room for you back here.”

For someone who sounded like he was already half asleep, John was out of the driver’s seat and lying down on the bunk before Harold even had a chance to make room. John was on his side with an arm thrown over Harold’s waist. Harold smiled into the dark cab as John pressed his nose against Harold’s neck and sighed happily.

Harold closed his eyes, contentment lulling him to sleep. Before it pulled him under though, John’s arm tightened across his waist and John pleaded as he snuggled even closer, “Please don’t leave me ever again!”

***

Late-morning sunlight brightening the cab as well as the noisy sounds of the beginning of the day in a packed parking lot full of eighteen-wheelers awoke Harold the next morning. John was awake too, holding himself up on one arm while looking down at Harold.

“Good morning!” John greeted him as he opened his eyes. “We should hit the road too, but I wanted to do this first, have wanted to since I first woke you up yesterday morning.”

John leaned down and kissed Harold tentatively at first before deepening it when Harold sighed pleasurably.

Harold was right about John still being an excellent kisser.

~~~

Breakfast time had long since passed before they finally headed home. Both men were not really speaking as the miles flew by lost in their own thoughts as they looked out at the road ahead. Tongues running over swollen, reddened lips every so often were the telltale signs they had spoken enough without words the past four hours.

~~*~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, the twelfth and final chapter is in the works.  
> It just needs some buffing up and polishing. LOL


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip home  
> plans are made  
> Harold and Sameen talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned on this being the last chapter  
> but there is more to tell in Southern Comfort  
> than one chapter can hold.

 

The ride back was mostly spent in silence with John occasionally mentioning something as they passed by an exit off the interstate: a city his parents took him to as a child for some event such as his birthday — which was rarely, or the one his high school’s basketball team had went to when the Panthers made it to the semi-final round of a tri-state championship tournament before losing the game by three points to the eventual number one.

Harold would listen intently — to everything John would tell him about some event from his youth, the words adding color to the black and white memories Harold had kept dear to his heart from those desert nights when John would talk about his childhood growing up — until the other man’s words would trail off and he would seem contemplative. Harold thought not to intrude by asking him to continue believing John was reliving a private moment or moments of that event in his mind.

When John would remain silent for long interludes, each time Harold would turn his attention away to the scenery passing by. In the lulls of conversation Harold’s mind would begin to wander. Only not to remembrances of nights long ago, but to the one previous, of John lying close to him pressing himself into Harold’s embrace like a little boy lost at long last found. Or of this morning when they should have been on their way back to Hanging Moss they had spent hours kissing each other deeply and passionately as if sating a deep thirst that had left them parched and dry for far too long.

Their mouths were not the only parts of their bodies seeking to rekindle the passion they had once shared between them. Their hands were too, touching the other’s body over clothing and under, reverently or desperately at times. Only time had changed them both, the fervor for the other was different. John was no longer a gangly youth, awkward and stick thin, but a mature man all hard muscle, sinewy and taut under Harold's exploring fingers.

Harold couldn’t tell who had groaned into the other’s mouth the loudest when John had covered his completely with another open kiss. John had pulled away Harold’s hands from his cloth covered pecs, practically ripped off the tee he was wearing, then raggedly begged “Finch, touch me, please!” Which is what Harold did, running a hand over taut brown nipples and then tweaking them between thumb and forefinger. Being able to run his hands over John’s silk smooth skin and pinch the hard nibs was as pleasurable in the touching for Harold as it was for John to be touched.

Any lingering doubts that Finch had that he was not who John wanted  — that his disability, his scars, his injuries made him undesirable  — made Harold feel even more regret, anger at himself, and the biggest fool after this morning’s intimacies. There was no doubt at just how much when John had carefully draped most of his body over Harold’s while supporting most of his weight on his elbows; one at each of Harold’s sides, began rolling his own hips, and pressing his iron hard erection against Harold’s leg.

Harold sensitivity to touch below the hip was damaged with his spinal injury; he could sense pressure even if not the actual feeling. He couldn’t move his leg to give John permission to seek relief through friction, only wrap his arms around John’s waist and back pulling then holding John tighter to him. John had moved his head to press his nose into Harold’s neck, breathing hotly while mouthing along Harold’s jawline, and snapping his hips harder and faster.

A loud banging on the driver’s side door had startled them both, eliciting a “Fuck! Not again,” from John as he angrily jumped up and into his seat. He had paused a moment to gather himself, then partially moved the privacy curtain away from the window and rolled it down.

It was an employee from the truck stop’s garage who had noticed their rig still parked in the near empty lot, who had answered several calls from the plantation foreman and had come out knocking at the door to let them know Cal had phoned the truck stop. Templeton was concerned that John hadn’t called to say they were on their way home, wasn’t answering his cell phone, and was worried some other mishap had delayed their leaving.

By the time John was able to tell the mechanic all was well, and he would call his boss to let the man know that they had just overslept, Harold had moved out of the bunk and into the passenger seat. The mechanic had merely nodded then swept a knowing look up into the cab. He could tell from both his and John’s appearance that they were not sleeping, but had the tact to just wave a friendly goodbye and turned to head back towards the shop.

John had then looked towards Harold sheepishly nodding towards the bunk, “Sorry about that.” And added quickly as if Harold would mistake what he was sorry for, “I meant the interruption not what we were doing back there. If I didn’t have to return today for the beginning of cane harvesting tomorrow, I would stop somewhere, rent a decent room, and take up with where we left off.” John blinked, batting long lashes with seduction mixed with more than a touch of, _Please say yes; that you want that too._

John's face fell when Harold replied, “We should get going.” And brightened as the day when the clouds parted after a storm letting welcome sunlight through, “We have all the time in the world to love each other. Let’s go home.”

John never talked about that morning the rest of the day, just mentioning this or that thing, totally unrelated to what had almost happened.

Yet the time flew by and the evening was soon upon them

John pulled the rig into a truck stop and then called a cab to take them to dinner. The restaurant was not far from the resort hotel he planned to take Harold to the previous day if they had not been delayed.

Seeing how much Harold liked the restaurant and really seemed disappointed that they only had time for their meal and not for a night at the resort, John suggested that next time he would take time off and they could drive to the resort in one of their personal vehicles.

As they sat there close together continuing to eat their evening meal, John wasn’t serious when he leaned in even closer and teased a bit, "That is if you aren't game for another road trip in the semi." John sat up and laughed a deep booming one when Harold had shot back more loudly than he had intended, “You just try and go on one without me from now on.”

Harold had looked past John then at some diners seated nearby, John's roar of amusement having caught their attention. A woman seeking out the source of the rather pleasant sound having spotted John, had ran her eyes over him appreciatively, then bowed her head just a bit in Harold's direction, gave him two thumbs up and mouthed, “Way to go!”

Once back on the road their comfortable silences continued giving Harold more time to reflect.

There was no doubt John loved him completely and didn’t expect more than Harold could give him sexually.

Decision made, he planned to see his personal physician in New York once again as soon as possible. They had discussed while he was in rehabilitation during his recovery at the New York hospital how much he could perform sexually with a female partner.

He could still have enjoyable fulfilling sex even with his debilitating injuries if that partner was willing to do most of the physical ‘activity’ during intercourse not including what he could do to satisfy his lover orally or by using his hands. When asked, the doctor told Harold he may have to take medicine for erectile dysfunction, but that was common for many men his age even those without a spinal injury.

Beth had ended up trampling his heart. Needless to say she was never going to be that willing partner; stomping out of his life, throwing vile hurtful words in his face as she ran, leaving Harold to believe he was some loathsome monster. But John had barged back into his life with a bull-headed determination that had crashed through every barrier, road-block, or wall Harold tried to put up between them with a love that time had never diminished and saw the beauty in Harold that others never had.

Harold had found that partner now in John.

Lost in his thoughts, Harold hadn’t noticed that John had slowed the truck down, driven it slowly into the plantations main yard and turned off the engine. Harold looked around in confusion at the bluish-tinged buildings shadowed from the artificial night lights over head when John shook him gently by the shoulder and in a voice nearly a whisper said, “Hey! We’re here.”

Harold was somewhat disappointed after John had loaded his wheelchair, his overnight bags, helped him into cab of the Chevy and then drove down the lane towards the farmhouse instead of the mansion.

That is until John turned off the engine, stopping at the gate to open it and had turned to face Harold.

John truly sounded as disappointed as Harold felt when John explained, “I need to be up in a few hours to prepare the equipment before sunrise to begin harvesting sugar cane. I really would rather take you back to the mansion and climb into bed next to you. I want nothing more than to spend the night and all day tomorrow together, with you, in bed — but duty calls. Can I get a rain-check for now?”

Robert stepped off the porch as John parked alongside it and with a gesture of his hand indicated he would carry Harold’s belongings in the truck’s bed into the house. All John had to do was carry Harold inside, but before he did he kissed Harold long and hard.

When at last he reluctantly pulled away, John suggested Harold sleep in tomorrow morning but asked if he would want to ride along with him in one of the cane haulers to the mill and back; keep him company in the three or four trips he would make in the afternoon.

Of course, Harold had to agree. To be able to be together, to possibly talk more about the past and discuss their future now that Harold believed they had one together, was worth a little discomfort even after John warned him that sometimes they could be sitting in the cab for possibly hours at a time as their cane truck waited in a long line of other haulers to be unloaded.

With the promise of spending the afternoon together neither man felt bad about being apart that night. John carried Harold inside, brushed a kiss over his forehead after helping him into his chair, said hello and goodbye in one breath to Sameen, and then waved goodbye jauntily to everyone in the room as he stepped back outside.

Sameen followed Harold into his bedroom then dropped down into the overstuffed chair that sat near the window. She jerked her thumb towards the still open drapes and the sound of the Chevy as John drove away.

“So are we staying here or what? Did you two hook up? You both looked like a couple of lovesick fools. I … want … details!” Sameen pushed her shoes off then drew her feet up underneath her butt waiting for Harold to tell all. And he did tell all, well not quite everything exactly as it happened, the intimacies of that morning Harold kept to himself.

If it hadn’t been for her they might be back in New York with Harold wasting away in his dark apartment shunning the light instead of welcoming it because John loved him, truly loved him. That he could share with his friend, because if anyone deserved details it was her.

~~~

John was the epitome of cool, calm, and collected leaving Finch’s house. He took the steps one at a time then slowly walked across the drive to climb into the cab of the 4x4. He drove the truck at a snail’s pace out of the gate giving the Chevy just enough gas to keep it moving. Even getting out of the truck to close and latch the gate, John moved like he had all the time in the world to do it.

It was when John was back in the driver’s seat, his hands loosely draped over the steering wheel and looking back at the old two-story through the rear view mirror, he lost it. John let out a whoop of joy loud enough to be heard clear to Baton Rouge followed by an extremely joyous ovation of sorts as he then alternated between rapidly drumming the steering wheel and dash open palmed. He would have stomped his feet had there been the legroom.

John’s biggest expectation during their road trip had been for Harold to truly see that his handicap was just a challenge for them to overcome together, not fear it as an indestructible wall keeping them apart. John’s only hope was that Harold would stop pushing him away because of that fear.

John understood that he needed to take things slow even though there was nothing more that he wanted than to show Harold then just how much he desired the older man. John had resisted as long as he could before giving in to his needs and wants. Had Harold pushed him away once more, John knew it would have been because he was asking Harold for too much, too soon.

Only Harold hadn’t pushed him away, he had pulled John into his embrace and held on tightly as if both their lives depended on it. If they hadn’t been interrupted, once again, how far would they have gone?

Harold had said they had the rest of their lives to love one another. He wanted and needed John as much as John needed him. _Harold wants me!_

John had kept silent most of the drive back to Hanging Moss, his mind reliving that morning over and over down to the minutest detail. Each replay seemed just as real as the actual happening yet surreal in a way that left him believing it all a dream.

Even the drive home, the plans they made for tomorrow, their arrival at the plantation and their parting after his taking Harold home was like it all was a continuation of the dream.

Why looking back at the house, his hands on the steering wheel with the thrum of the engine as the truck idled reaching his ears, was like pinching himself to see if he was awake, he didn’t understand. It was as if in that moment his perception of what had transpired ceased to be that of fantasies conjured up by his desperate imagination but truth as solid and real as the vehicle he was sitting in now.

The trip, despite some minor setbacks, couldn't have gone any better. The truth that not only had he proven to Finch that they could be together, no matter what the challenges, Harold now believed it just as much as John had surprisingly sunk in at last

And what made John Reese whoop and holler the loudest of all?  Something he had given up hope of ever knowing again was that Harold Finch wanted him.  _Harold wants me!!!_

John Reese, former Army Ranger, had fought and won another battle. This victory **was** the most important of his life. He didn’t care one iota if anyone watching right now believed him a lunatic. He just whooped and drummed a little louder before putting the truck in gear and headed home.

~~~

Mrs. Moseley had already retired for the night, but had left a note on the dining room table letting John know there was a plate of cold fried chicken and coleslaw along with a slice of chocolate mayonnaise cake in the fridge for a late evening dinner.

John grabbed the plates of food along with a glass of his housekeeper’s homemade raspberry iced tea intending to take it all up to his own bedroom on the second floor. He didn’t make it there.

Instead, he ended up in the study turned bedroom, sitting in a chair, eating and drinking while staring at the neatly made up double bed. It had been the right thing to do having called it an early night; he could tell Harold was exhausted and John himself had to be up in a few hours. Still he had wanted nothing more than to have brought Harold here, back to this bed, and spent the night together with him.

Soon! — John promised himself, stood, and then picked up the empty plates and glass intending on returning them to the kitchen. He couldn’t say if it was the combination of a full stomach and his own exhaustion making itself felt or something else entirely, but John set the empty dishes back on the end table before walking over to close the study door. Instead of going to his own room, he stripped down to his underwear before turning down the covers and getting into what he now considered Harold’s bed.

John dozed off with a huge grin on his face as he hugged the pillow Harold had slept on close to his face, breathing in the scent uniquely Harold Finch still lingering in the pillow case.

~~~

The first few hours of the next morning flew by in the hectic preparations to get equipment ready. As everyone involved in the harvest arrived and were given their assignments once more it was an organized, yet, mad scramble to get machines and operators into the first field before the sun had fully risen.

In an earlier crew meeting, Cal had proposed that John be the one to run the new harvester, in his mind the owner of the plantation having seniority of sorts of the two men having operated one, but John had declined knowing Carl Saunders was the more experienced between them.

So too had the majority of the morning passed quickly while the hauler John had opted to drive instead was the first filled with harvested cane and he made the first trip of the day to the mill.

It was while sitting in the cab of his truck as it idled in the long line of cane haulers at the mill for its turn to be unloaded that time started to crawl by. Even the thirty minute drive home seemed to take hours.

Finally though, after making a brief stop at the mansion to clean up a bit and pick up the insulated food tote his housekeeper had packed with lunch and drinks, John drove the cane hauler through the already opened gate and parked it in front of the plantation house.

John shut down the truck’s engine and opened the door but paused momentarily before getting out of the cab. He shook his head and harrumphed as one side of his lips turned up in a quick smile. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since being with Harold last, but the feeling of a million butterflies flitting about in his chest at the anticipation of seeing the man he loved again had John thinking, _“Boy do I have it bad!”_

~~~

It had been well after midnight when Sameen and Harold had finally called it a night, with Shaw getting out of the chair and leaning down over Harold to give him a hug before she left. Her forever present no nonsense, tough-gal tone had softened into genuine fondness when she had said, “I really am happy for you.”

He had returned her hug, his own voice rough with emotion, “Thank you Sameen... for everything.”

Harold sighed as he heard the click of the door closing when his friend left the bedroom. The night’s conversation may have started out with Harold regretting his decision to tell all, but it ended with Harold coming to the realization that no better ally, confidant, voice of reason, and most of all, friend, had he found than in one small spitfire of a woman called Sameen Shaw.

As they first began to talk, Harold had felt uncomfortable, at times avoiding the briefest eye contact with Shaw as she eagerly pressed him for more and more details; the warm flush of embarrassment crept up his face when Sameen would interject with pointed and accurate questions that revealed the more intimate minutiae Harold had tried to leave out; and a stab of guilt, that somehow he was betraying John by ever confiding in Sameen.

Of course, it wasn’t lost on Sameen how much Harold seemed to be troubled talking with her. Eventually she halted him mid-sentence snapping her fingers to get his attention.

“Look Harold!” she huffed. “John practically begged me to be his accomplice in every one of his plans to _woo_ you. When you decided you wanted to be anywhere but here, I’m the one who convinced you to give John a chance. If he has a problem with you talking to me now, about his finally getting you back, I wouldn’t have even the tiniest problem marching over there and telling him he is an ungrateful ass.”

Harold had stared at her briefly, his jaw practically dropping to the floor, before he burst out laughing uncontrollably. He could well imagine Shaw doing just that and then John backing down like a great Dane retreating from a Chihuahua.

“I don’t think that will be necessary Ms. Shaw.” Harold finally wheezed out: trying to control himself while swiping away at the laughter tears trying to roll down his cheeks. “I sincerely doubt John will have a problem at all. If not for you…”

Sameen settled back in her chair and Harold rolled his wheelchair closer. Harold still didn’t divulge any of the more intimate details, but he shared everything else over and over again until she at last fell silent.

Well silent for only a moment, “Well since you told me all about your date, I guess it’s only fair…” Shaw whispered conspiratorially.

Harold had fallen asleep soon after getting in bed once Sameen left; only to wake up four hours later. Although he tried, he was too restless to go back to sleep and gave up. It was too early for Robert to be up and downstairs to help him bathe so Harold only relieved himself, brushed his teeth, and put on a robe over his pajamas.

There was a bit of a chill in the air when Harold wheeled himself out into the garden. The eastern sky was starting to lighten when Harold heard the far off sound of machinery and men’s voices in the near distance. Harold couldn’t help but believe one of them was John’s reaching his ears he so wanted to hear the other man again.

The sun had risen and was well into the sky when Robert sought him out to help Harold get ready for the day. He told Robert of his plans to ride along with John that afternoon. Harold knew not to dress fancy but wanted to put on his best casual clothes. Robert gave a knowing wink and picked out Harold’s favorite polo shirt and khaki trousers.

There were still two hours to wait even though Harold hadn’t rushed getting ready. Robert and Sameen had taken a seat on the sofa pretending to watch TV, while Harold spent the time looking out the living room window.

Sameen elbowed Robert in the side sometime in the second hour of waiting and whispered in Robert’s ear, “Boss man’s got it bad.”

Every glint of sunlight flitting through the leaves and reflecting in the window had Harold straining to see down the lane believing the light to be gleaming off the windshield of a truck. Every sound of an engine carrying on the wind was the motor of the cane hauler John would be driving and Harold’s face would fall when no vehicle pulled up to the gate.

Near the time of John’s arrival, Robert told Sameen he was going out to open the gate, nodding in Harold’s direction. “No need to make that man suffer waiting any longer than necessary, that few minutes it takes for John to do it might just kill him,” Robert feigned concern for an imaginary danger.

Mercifully though, Harold’s waiting was over as the yellow truck, the Hanging Moss logo emblazoned on its doors, came through the open gate and stopped in front of the porch.

John Reese jumped down; the half smile on his lips blossoming into a full bloomed grin, when Robert held open the screen door and Harold maneuvered his wheelchair onto the porch.

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter may be the last  
> but who knows where my muse will take me.  
> Last or not look for Chapter 13 soon.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An afternoon spent together as John drives his  
> truck to and from the sugar cane mill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold gets to see more of the plantation other than his view  
> of what surrounded the farmhouse from its windows.  
> More of Harold's thoughts how much his life has changed.  
> John gets a big surprise.

 

Harold stopped his chair at the wooden edge where the cedar-red stain of the porch stopped and the green safety matting covering the wheelchair ramp began.

He only had a few seconds to watch and appreciate John Reese in motion — something Harold had been allowing himself to do without sensor more and more in recent days — as the denim clad man hopped down from the seat of the cane truck and in a few strides of his long-legged gait reached the steps.

Because the fall day had turned warm and humid, John was dressed again in the well-worn sleeveless denim shirt and even more worn denim shorts. The shirt stretched tautly over John’s upper torso revealing the play of powerful muscles underneath it and the shorts; there was nothing much left to the imagination of what lay beneath the nearly threadbare material next to the short’s zipper.  _My god he’s beautiful and he’s mine!_ Harold breath caught in his chest as a jolt of desire coursed like an Adrenalin rush through his body at the thought.

The smile that John had on his face since the moment Harold came out of the house widened as if he were pleased that Harold was –distracted– having to ask him again, “Are you ready?” The focal point of Harold’s distraction was now at eye level, John having climbed the steps to stand next to Harold on the porch.

Harold blinked rapidly as he collected himself to answer that he was. John waved off Robert’s offer to help, moved in back of Harold’s chair to push it down the ramp and the length of the short sidewalk to the truck. Once there John opened the passenger door and turned waiting for Harold to lift his arm, then ran one of his behind Harold's back, the other he slid under Harold’s legs to lift when he did.

On the night of the dinner at the mansion when he’d first let John help him in and out of the wheelchair he couldn’t help but feel broken and useless regardless that John had carried him like precious cargo. Only now Harold was reminded how special and loved he felt being gathered up in the younger man’s arms, especially when John looked down at him with caring, love filled eyes as he lifted Harold’s body up with that gentle strength of his and held on as if he never wanted to let go.

There was only the one running board for John to step up on wide enough to stand that he was able to help Harold right onto the cab’s single bench seat. He reached across Harold’s lap to retrieve the seat belt buckle that had slid between the seat and backrest so Harold could buckle himself in, then stepped down and closed the door.

By the time John had stored the wheelchair and then trotted around to the driver’s side to get in, Harold was buckled up ready to go. Chuckling, "Someone's anxious to get going," John did the same thing, started the truck’s engine, and put it in gear. Not needing to stop, John kept driving the truck out of the yard and down the lane.

Both Sameen and Robert walked out to the end of the drive waving goodbye to the two men until they reached the gate and Robert closed it. Harold was watching the two in the side mirror of the truck and after the news Sameen had given him the night previous, couldn’t have been happier to see Robert drape an arm over her shoulders as they turned to walk back to the house.

The plantation yard looked quite a bit different in the full light of day as John brought the truck to a stop in front of a building; its front was constructed mostly of one large window; green lettering signifying that the building was the ‘office’ was affixed to the yellow siding closest to a brown metal door.  John looked over and was practically crackling with excitement when he said, “Wait here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

A few minutes later John was followed out the office door by an older black gentleman who walked to the passenger door as John returned to the driver’s side and got back into the truck. Harold lowered the window as the gentleman stepped up onto the running board.

The man’s grip was firm and as welcoming as the open friendliness in his dark brown eyes as Cal Templeton shook Harold’s proffered hand through the open window. There was still no doubt the man was sizing Harold up, but it only took the several seconds the greeting lasted for him to have met with Cal’s approval.

“So you’re the one responsible for the big goofy grin that’s always on this guy’s face lately?” Cal teased, chuckling and looking at John fondly.

“Oh by the way, the name’s Cal. Yours is Harold, right?”

Only before Harold could answer Cal turned to look upwards at the sky. He then looked back inside the cab to suggest that he and Harold get together for coffee later on to get better acquainted; it was an offer that seemed quite genuine on his part. Cal looked to both men in the truck before telling them there was nothing more that he would like to do than to chat with them for the rest of the day, that he meant no offense to either of them, but John needed to get back in the field right away. They didn’t have time for any delays.

“There’s a storm coming soon. I can feel it, John.” With that he nodded goodbye to the two men, got down from the truck, and headed back inside.

John started up the truck again and drove it down a single lane dirt road between fields of tall cane growing on either side. Harold could hear machinery and men’s voices nearby, but couldn’t see anyone or anything except the cane plants that surrounded them when John stopped the truck once more.

At Harold’s curious look his way, John turned off the engine, undid his seatbelt, and then slid closer towards Harold along the seat. “I know Cal wanted me to get back to where they are harvesting right away. We’re almost there and I know I should heed his advice, but I can’t wait a moment longer to do this.” He then cupped the back of Harold’s neck and leaned in to kiss Harold with a mere touch of his lips.

It was not the need to sate long denied desires that brought John’s mouth to Harold’s this time but a gentle search for reassurance. They broke the kiss momentarily to catch their breath, but when they began again, it was Harold who caught John’s head with the palm of his hand to pull him close. “It’s me John. I’m really here,” Harold softly cried as he did so.

The sound of the communication’s radio coming to life as a man’s voice crackled through the speakers, “John, we’re ready for you now,” had both men separating a few minutes later with John sliding back behind the wheel and buckling up again.

 The next half-hour as John pulled up close to the harvester and guided the truck to move along slowly next to it as both truck and harvester paralleled each other going up one row and down the next, Harold kept silent as not distract John.

He also watched the goings on about him with avid interest; this was his and John’s plantation at work. What Harold had once viewed only on video while pretending to be the mysterious investor _Mr. Smith,_ was in reality a far cry from anything he watched on the DVD disks. Harold had every faith that he and John would be together from now on. Yet seeing all this in real time action, after having watched video after video of John’s joy in the resurrection of his home and pride as it once again became the jewel of plantations it was in John’s father's time made everything he had done worthwhile even if John had never discovered he was _Mr. Smith._

Once their truck’s payload was full of cut cane, John took the roundabout way off the plantation coming out on the oiled road running alongside a wide river. Harold was able to see much of the plantation’s western and southern acreage as John first drove south on the aptly named River Road and then turned onto the main highway heading towards the cane mill twenty miles to the east.

Harold watched John’s face almost as much as he did looking at every field, orchard, and building visible from the road that John had to point out as they drove along. Once again Harold knew no bounds to the joy and satisfaction he felt having been able to give John all this. The obscene amount of money he had made in his lifetime through WFT; the billions that had never truly made him happy were now, as having the fortune gave him the means to save John’s home from foreclosure.

As if John somehow read his thoughts he reached across to place a hand on Harold's shoulder; John only looked away from the road for a second but Harold saw the glint of unshed tears in his eyes. John’s voice noticeably wavered as he squeezed Harold’s shoulder, “Thank you for all of this.” 

~~~

John pulled the truck into the small mini-mart off the highway a few miles before the turnoff they needed to take. From there, a short stretch of blacktop led to the sugar cane mill and _Family Foods_ sugar processing plant. The store was recently built, had ample parking for any vehicle type in its asphalt paved lot, and modern handicap friendly facilities inside the building. There were no facilities at all except in the processing plant itself for _Family Food_ employees. It might be a long wait in line for the truck to be unloaded once they got there. Better safe than sorry taking the time to stop now.

He noticed that the number of empty cane haulers they passed only in the last five miles of the twenty mile trip from Hanging Moss had almost doubled compared to the loaded ones he had passed leaving the mill that morning. He hazarded to guess the number of them that had left the plant going in opposing directions. It had been an exceptional growing season weather-wise and it seemed Hanging Moss was not the only cane grower whose fields had benefited from it judging by the increase in the number of vehicles in just a few hours.

John found a spot in the truck section of the lot not too far from the building to park their vehicle and then shut off the motor. He turned to watch Harold who was taking in everything going on around the truck with an interested curiosity.

“That wait in line might be a hell of a lot longer than I told you. We should make a pit stop now I think,” John answered when Harold looked at him after a few moments and asked why they had stopped. Harold readily agreed.

John got out of the truck to open the storage compartment between the truck’s cab and cargo box that was roomy enough to store Harold’s wheelchair, took it out to set on the ground, and pulled it open. Harold had the door already open and was waiting to be helped out of the cab by the time John pushed the chair around to the passenger side. With ease, John helped him out of the truck, into the chair, and pushed it towards the store’s entrance.

That first time he had helped Harold down from the semi even though he never showed it outwardly, John could tell Harold was self-conscious and even terrified of the reactions from the people around them watching. Now Harold was so comfortable letting John care for him in public, his disabled partner’s attention was more on the handsome man loving and caring for him than who might be staring at the cripple. Knowing this made John feel special and that his love was returned

John thought to himself as he pushed Harold forward that this was possibly one of the best days of his life — and it wasn’t even over yet.

His elation from the night before was ramped up even more that morning when he’d caught Harold staring hungrily at him.

Even though Cal had sent them on their way sooner than John had expected, he could tell that the older man, whose judgment John had come to rely on these past several months, had found Harold worthy. Cal’s approval or disapproval wouldn’t have made any difference in his wanting and needing Harold, but it pleased John to no end that Cal liked Harold.

When he’d stopped the truck to kiss Harold, inexplicably needing affirmation that their being together wasn’t some cruel illusion, Harold had kissed him back so sweetly as soon as their lips touched. Then in understanding of what John needed, Harold’s voice had cracked with emotion as he’d said he was really there.

And best of all, finally being able to show Harold so much of the plantation — the home he loved in which Harold had given him the means to retain ownership, keep it a working farm, and not see Hanging Moss turned into some museum showpiece by an uncaring investor  — and being able to thank Harold for that.

The facilities made use of, John had helped Harold back into the truck and they were on their way to the mill twenty minutes later.  Another ten after that, John drove the truck through the mill’s security gate stopping it behind a monolith _Caterpilla_ r farm tractor with three cane wagons hitched to it and each other to take their place in line.

There were all kinds of cane filled haulers waiting to be unloaded varying from tractor-trailer combinations to wagons pulled by farm tractors such as the one they were now parked behind. Before John left the truck to go check their load in at the office he took the time to answer Harold’s many questions. One was that John had deferred to Cal’s preferences in using the farm trucks like they were in now and not the semi; the semis sometimes were too hard to maneuver in the field thereby needing the trailer to be pulled by another vehicle; that in turn resulted in wasting often precious harvesting time with the unhitching and hitching of the trailer from and to both vehicles.

When John jumped back into the truck after checking in, Harold sat quietly for a few minutes before speaking again.

“John...” Harold cleared his throat and tried again, “John, I’m really interested in talking more about cane harvesting. I find it all fascinating. I was just wondering if we might talk about things of a personal nature while we wait.”

~~~

Harold had watched out the truck window, enjoying being with John again and seeing more of the people, places, and things that made up John’s home and what he now considered his.

It wasn't lost on himself that Harold could now admit that what in the beginning had filled him with apprehension, to the point of terror even, was now something he had become quite comfortable in doing, relished even, when John stopped before they reached the mill and helped him out of the truck for their pit stop. He loved being helped by John, being seen now by others instead of hiding away from their view. Any negative reactions from onlookers were more of an envious or jealous nature than those he had once feared.

Harold asked more questions of John about the things going on around them when they had arrived at the mill. He was interested in everything John had taken the time to explain to him; this was all going to be a part of his life now, nevertheless Harold realized he was stalling. He was waiting until the right time, if there was one sitting in the front seat of a cane truck waiting for it to be unloaded, to bring up what was really on his mind, their future together. John had left to check in their load at the mill’s office offering to answer more of Harold’s questions when he returned. Harold took those few minutes to gather his thoughts on what he planned to say and when John climbed back into the cab he began.

“John...” Harold cleared his throat and tried again, “John, I’m really interested in talking more about cane harvesting. I find it all fascinating. I was just wondering if we might talk about things of a personal nature while we wait.”

John turned as much as he could in the seat, reached across it to loosely intertwine the fingers of his right hand with those on Harold’s left, and softly encouraged Harold to continue, “I’d like that Finch. Go on.”

“I wanted to spend last night with you at the mansion or at my house, either place where we could be alone and not be disturbed; you don’t know how much. I was disappointed that we spent it apart. What we were doing, what we were about to do, yesterday morning awoke something inside of me I thought I’d never feel again after my accident. You made me feel alive, as well as being wanted and needed again. I want to experience that every night from now on,” Harold spoke as John’s face reflected his own discouragement at their having spent the night apart.

That is until the entirety of Harold’s words struck home; John gasped joyously and at a loss for words attempted to voice his ecstatic response to them. Harold though reached over and pressed a finger to John’s lips to silence him.

“My physician in New York who saw to most of my aftercare told me that my injuries wouldn’t preclude my having fulfilling sexual relations with a partner willing to ‘shoulder the load’ so to speak. You understand that and don’t expect more from me than I can give. I love you for that, John, so much.”

John reached up to take hold of the hand whose fingers still silenced him and lowered it, squeezed the hands he now grasped in each one of his, and then huskily said, “I want to be your partner Harold. All I need is for you to love me back with all your heart. Let me take care of the rest.” John tightened his grip on Harold’s hands, “Starting tonight?”

“Not tonight as much as I would like to... No hear me out ... please?” Harold gripped tightly to John's hands when he tried to pull away as disappointment mixed with confusion filled the younger man’s eyes.

“I want to be able to give you as much as I possibly can, physically. I want to fly to New York City to see my physician again to; have him re-examine me to determine what I need to do to make that happen. When I return we can begin our forever life together. Can you give me that few days?”

John lifted Harold’s left hand and kissed the knuckles one by one then answered while choking back tears, “I want you Harold Finch just the way you are, but if this is what you feel you need to do, I can wait. I’ve waited my entire life for you to come back to me; I can wait a little longer.”

“Oh John, I'm so sorry,” Harold choked out, his eyes filled with sorrow and regret. “I thought I was doing what I thought best for you when I gave you up. I realize now I was only submitting to my own fears and insecurities not doing what was best for you. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Harold, I forgave you twenty years ago.”

It was then the line ahead moved forward a little. Both men smiled at each other, squeezed the other’s hands, and nodded in complete understanding. John gently shook Harold’s hands before letting them go, started the truck up, and drove it forward.

When John turned to face Harold again, Harold returned his sparkling gaze with a hopeful one of his own, “I have another reason to go to New York, John. I have an appointment with Raymond also. I wish to turn the deed for Hanging Moss back over to you: lien and debt free. I want it to be our home together John, but the plantation will be in the Reese name as it should have been long ago. My gift to you, if you will accept it.”

John looked completely stunned, shaking his head in disbelief while staring at Harold with wide eyes. “Are you serious?” He then slid across the seat to wrap his arms around Harold clinging tightly to him. “Of course I accept.”

Harold felt the python’s grip around him loosen momentarily as John held him away long enough to say, “On one condition. The deed should have both our names on it. Save having to change it again once we are married.”

Harold voice quivered, tears threatening to spill down his face, “I accept your terms John, with all my heart.”

They hugged and held each other not saying a word until John noticed he needed to pull the truck forward again. “We need to get back to work.” John let him go and slid back across the seat to start up the engine. Harold only hoped that his face mirrored the elation lighting up John’s.

The rest of the day they spent carefree, enjoying each other’s companionship, smiling, laughing, and making promises to one another that when Harold returned they would make some serious plans for their future.

They made two more trips to the mill before John dropped Harold off at his house and went home himself. But, not without sitting in the truck til well after dark, kissing and saying whispered goodbyes and I love you to one another over and over before John did.

Throughout the rest of the afternoon, John always managed to find someone else to whom he introduced Harold. There was no doubt in Harold’s mind that the news would spread like wildfire throughout the community surrounding Morganville. Harold Finch was John Reese's boyfriend. It was not lost on Harold that a few short months ago he wanted nothing to do except hide from the world and now there was nothing more that could make him happier than being seen and having this.

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter I think.  
> an e[ilogue too  
> A storm and its aftermath draws John and Harold even closer


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip to New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold again takes advantage of being filthy rich  
> Anything for his John  
> Three go to NYC one goes home, early.

 

There was a time in his life when Harold Finch believed his wealth blinded people from seeing the homely little man that he was; they offered themselves up on a platter and he unashamedly took what was given. That is until he met a young private named John Reese who gave his body, heart, and soul to Harold asking only to be loved in return.

Oh, how much Harold did return that love; even after he had done the stupidest thing in his life; he walked out of John’s. Harold had continued to love John — was in love with him — even if from afar; his heart, his soul was John’s forever.

In the years that followed, although there was never a shortage of people who were more than ready and willing to give what Harold had once taken, he never used his money and power in that way again.

That didn’t mean Harold was beyond taking advantage of the size of his bank account to give: especially if that giving was for John Reese.

Harold held no illusions that living in the farmhouse as a provision to the loan arrangement wasn’t for him but saving John’s home from foreclosure ultimately was for John; Harold would have found some other way to give John the deed to Hanging Moss if John had turned the offer down.

As for seeing his doctor, Harold’s health overall was fine; finding out how to achieve the most satisfying intimacies was for John, not himself.

Arranging to have the WFT helicopter and its pilot ready to fly Harold to New York City at a moment’s notice was not difficult to arrange; he owned WFT. Nor was scheduling a meeting with Raymond at 2:00 pm the next day, a scant fourteen hours after Harold had ended the call to his lawyer; best friends since grade school notwithstanding, Raymond Kensington worked for WFT.

Scheduling an appointment with his physician the following day without any difficulty — when Joe Normal usually had to wait two weeks unless it was an emergency — had everything to do with the donations Harold had made to Dr. Cervantes' Clinic.

Meeting with _Empire State Bank’s_ president himself to complete the paperwork necessary to discharge the loan and re-title the deed in John Reese’s, well both their names per John’s request, in such short notice was entirely because the bank was wholly owned by WFT.

An hour after Harold had wheeled himself inside the house: the last of the arrangements had been made. An hour after that all three of them had packed for an overnight stay in New York City at Harold’s vacant penthouse, prepared themselves for bed, and Harold had called John…twice.

The first call was to tell him that all the arrangements were made, that they would be leaving at 6 AM tomorrow, that they were returning the following day, and to say goodnight.

The second time Harold had called was just to hear John’s voice one more time that night before he fell asleep. “Goodnight John. I love you,” Harold had said while trying to suppress a yawn.

“I’ll already be out in the field when you leave. Cal’s still insisting that storm is coming. Have the pilot buzz us, so I can at least wave goodbye,” John laughed when he heard Harold’s yawn escape. “Go to sleep, Harold. I love you too.”

~~~

The morning was dark, the sky a solid pale gray flecked with the occasional greenish-white cloud. The air around them was cool as expected for that time of morning, but thick with humidity. It was the same beginning that had started each day for close to a week and if the weather followed the same pattern for the rest of it, this day would turn warm and humid, the air thick with moisture, but Cal’s storm hadn’t materialized yet.

The pilot had informed Harold he had flown through some mild turbulence, but none so drastic that warranted the chopper needing to be grounded. Their entire flight to New York seemed smooth even when the pilot warned his passengers to prepare for some buffeting about more than once during their flight. The weather was much the same once they reached their destination, warm and muggy with a threat of rain that never materialized.

***

Harold had remembered to ask their pilot to fly the helicopter over the field where the harvesting crew was working that morning. John’s truck was parked off to the side of the lane along with three similar vehicles. The fields around the lookalike yellow trucks had been cut already, making them all easily spotted from above.

John must have been listening for the sound of the helicopter approaching because he was already standing on the running board waving his _John Deere_ baseball cap in the air for Harold to spot him. The pilot guided the helicopter twice in a circular pattern over the waving man below, low enough to the ground that Harold could read, _U.S. Army_ , on the front of the faded camo t-shirt John was wearing.

Harold turned in the seat to keep John in his view as long as he could as the helicopter ascended skyward and northeast. When John was no longer in sight and Harold settled against the backrest, he took no offense when Sameen teased him about the forlorn expression he knew covered his face, “Don’t be sad, Finch. You’ll be back in that big lug’s arms before you know it.”

***

The visit to Dr. Cervantes’ office almost immediately upon their arrival — a car and driver were already waiting at the airfield to drive them — had turned out more positive than Harold had expected.

Finch had sent Sameen and Robert off to the penthouse to wait for him there. The two had mildly protested that Harold would need Robert’s help, but their driver was Kevin, an employee of Kensington’s, whom Harold felt comfortable enough with to allow his assistance instead of Robert’s. Kevin was Arthur’s chauffeur before his business partner had moved back to Texas and then hired by Raymond Kensington; the man had been kind and gentle helping Harold in and out of the car that day his friend had taken Finch home after his release from Presbyterian Hospital. He asked Kevin to return in an hour with the car and wheeled himself into the clinic as the car drove off.

The nurse escorted Harold back to an exam room as soon as he had checked in with the receptionist. She had taken his vitals after asking him questions to update his medical file. She then helped him undress, into a gown, and with an unexpected strength given her slight build hefted him from his wheelchair up onto the exam table.

Harold had thought to himself as she left to tell the doctor that he was ready that he really needed to correct his assumptions about slight of frame women and their hidden strength especially after having met one Sameen Shaw.

When Dr. Cervantes came into the room only moments later, he greeted Harold with, “Hello Mr. Finch. You look markedly better than the last time I saw you. Southern hospitality seems to have worked wonders for you. Let me look over your chart first and then we’ll get started.”

While the doctor read, Harold sat on the paper liner and fidgeted with embarrassment. He kept darting glances at the physician as he did so and while the doctor was washing his hands. When Cervantes turned, sat on a rolling stool, and asked why Harold had needed to see him right away, Harold actually felt himself blush.

“Well, you see Doctor.” Harold paused.

The discussion they’d had during his hospital stay about his ability to perform sexually due to his injuries hadn’t made Harold feel this nervous. Maybe it was because he’d never truly wanted to be intimate with Beth. Not having to break his vow to be faithful to John would have been a relief. Being completely honest with himself now, Harold thought that finding out his paralysis hadn’t affected his ability to perform just the physical activity involved wasn’t so much a blessing that he could satisfy his future wife, but that he could fulfill his duty to Beth as her husband.

Harold took a deep breath attempting to get himself together but he still tripped over his own words as they rushed out of his mouth in halting sentences.

“You know my...my engagement ended badly? I, I wanted to run away and hide. I sought to find safe harbor...in Louisiana...on the plantation of my lover...my lover of twenty years ago. We met in the Middle East...where I was working...where he was stationed in the military. I never intended for John to find out it was me...I used a false personae….but John did find out. I don’t deserve him...I really don’t. I, I hurt him, badly...yet, he still loves me...and I him. We almost became...intimate two days ago. I just need to know...how I can...”

Harold took another deep breath to calm down enough in an attempt to ask maturely what he needed to know, but the words flew out of his mouth this time of their own volition without so much as a hitch, “What can I do as a paraplegic to give my boyfriend toe curling, take his breath away orgasms?” Harold gasped with embarrassment and his hand flew to his face expecting it to be scorched by the heat now burning up his face.

Dr. Cervantes, who had remained smiling through Harold’s stammered and abridged history of his love life, outright laughed at Harold’s risqué question before apologizing, “I’m sorry; that was unprofessional of me. May I exam you?”

When Harold nodded his okay, the doctor ran his hands over the mended broken bones, especially Harold's spine, and saying, “Good, good,” while checking the burn scars and the healed areas where skin had been grafted. During the examination he reminded Harold that they had run all the tests at the beginning of the year; all were positive that Harold's _equipmen_ t still worked. Cervantes helped Harold down to lie on his back before pulling on latex gloves. He examined Harold’s penis, scrotum, testicles, and then his rectum after gently turning Harold on his side. Cervantes tossed the gloves in the waste receptacle, helped Harold to sit back up, before sitting back down on the rolling chair, scooting it over to where he’d left the chart and made some notations.

Dr. Cervantes pulled a prescription pad from his pocket and scribbled on three of the pages tearing each one loose as he did and set them on the counter.

He then got up from the stool to stand in front of Harold; the clipboard with Harold’s medical file, he held loosely with both hands in front of him.

The doctor's tone was extremely pleased when as he spoke. “You couldn’t be doing any better than you are right now considering the condition you were still in when we discharged you. My advice about sexual activity then is still just as pertinent now. The exception being that you need to stretch the sphincter muscles if you plan on intercourse, be sure to let your male partner know that he can’t to be too rough, and make sure you are careful with your neck when giving oral.”

Cervantes indicated the prescriptions with a wave of the clipboard in their direction, “I am still advising that you and your partner take your time rediscovering how best to please one another. You know more than I how to _rock his world_ , just let your boyfriend take over what you are no longer able to do. He does understand your condition, does he not?”

Harold thought of John’s desperate rut against his leg and how gentle he was even in his need to find release. Harold assured the physician John would never hurt him unintentionally, even in the throes of passion, and yes, John understood completely Harold’s frailties. John Reese had in fact altered the inside of a semi-tractor to accommodate Harold’s disability just so they could go on a delivery together and had taken a crash course from Harold’s PT even, so Harold would not miss any of his therapy sessions while away for two days.

Dr. Cervantes nodded his approval and commented, “I don’t mean this to sound like your accident wasn’t tragic, but if not for that and its repercussions, I don’t think you would have been reunited with this person who obviously adores you.”

Remembering the scripts he had written, the doctor informed his patient what they were. “I don’t think you’ll need them but I wrote you a prescription for 25 mg Viagra tablets. The other two, one is a male multivitamin and the other a calcium supplement I prescribed before, I want you to continue to take both daily.”

“Do you have any other concerns you want to address today?” When Harold said no, the doctor shook his hand and turned to go, stopping at the door to say he would send the nurse back in to help him get dressed.

Harold was redressed and out in the waiting room twenty minutes before the car would return. He spent the time reading a _New York Times_ Sunday edition, thinking how relieved he was having seen Dr. Cervantes, knowing his and John’s intimacies could be extremely satisfying if they learned how to give and take in their love making together with Harold’s disability.

~~~

When Harold arrived in the office building of _The Kensington Law Firm,_ Raymond met him in the reception area. Harold did not miss his friend’s stride falter as the man took in Harold’s changed appearance before he’d continued with his approach, greeted Harold before dismissing his driver and taking over pushing the wheelchair towards the bank of elevators. During the quick ascent to the floor Raymond’s office, Raymond spoke, “I thought that your leaving New York was a huge mistake. I was wrong. You look...happy. I assume your source of happiness is the reason you have forgiven Mr. Reese’s loan and are deeding the plantation Hanging Moss in his name?”

“Our names,” Harold corrected.

“Ah, I see,” Raymond beamed, “Congratulations, Harold.”

The door opened and the attorney wheeled his friend into his law office where George Stapleton, president of _Empire State Bank_ , awaited them.

Thirty minutes later, the papers having been signed, Finch was back in the car and on his way to the airstrip. Harold had called John’s cell leaving him a message on his voicemail that he would be returning early. Harold was missing John more than he thought possible now that they were together again and was anxious to get home... ** _home_**.

He had given Sameen and Robert a week off and purchased tickets on a commercial flight for them to return to Louisiana when their vacation was over. As Harold had, Robert was lucky to find someone who loved him for who he was. Harold wanted them to take advantage of being alone in his empty penthouse. Besides, Harold wanted to have some private time of his own once he returned to the empty farmhouse.

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broke record here: There will be one more chapter and an epilogue  
> the storm comith!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold thinks its the end.  
> John refuses to live a life without Finch.

 

The helicopter was thirty minutes out from setting down on the landing pad at Hanging Moss when they flew into the storm Cal Templeton had been predicting. It had surrounded them so quickly the pilot – retired _U.S.A.F_ captain Brian Avery, for this flight – couldn't turn the helicopter back safely; with nowhere safe to land below them, staying on course was their only option.

Finch tried not to panic looking out at the dark angry clouds, lightning streaking from them in every direction – bright blinding flashes of electrified color. Harold choked back a scream when the cabin lit up an eerie almost fluorescent green; this was the last thing he remembered happening before the instrument panel had gone dark and the helicopter plunged to the ground that fateful day nearly four years ago.

His hands white knuckled from clinging to the seat, Harold prematurely breathed a sigh of relief when the pilot said he was setting the helicopter down on the ground. As soon as Avery said the words the aircraft was caught in a downdraft causing it to descend rapidly in an out of control spiral.

Harold swallowed hard to keep down the contents of his stomach, the taste in his mouth turning bitter and sour. “This can’t be happening again!” the voice inside Harold's head shrieked. Finch closed his eyes once again expecting his body to be rent apart and the seconds that seemed like an eternity filled with unbearable pain before blessed darkness granted him a brief respite.

Only because of Avery’s exceptional flying skills, the aircraft landed with a sharp jolt when the runners set down on pavement, thankfully with the helicopter landing upright.

Unfortunately Mother Nature’s wrath was not finished with them. The pilot hurriedly flipped several switches and then hastily unbuckled his safety harness.

“I have to get you out of here and into the house. It’s our only chance,” the pilot shouted above the thunderous roar outside. Harold was only a teenager when he’d last heard it, but you never forget the sound caused by the monster approaching them now.

Finch had managed to free his seat belt with shaking hands by the time Avery moved across the cabin in back of Harold and slid the door on Harold’s side open. There was no time for Harold to be carefully helped out of the helicopter; the retired captain pulled him from his seat none to gently, but quickly hefted Finch into a fireman’s carry and started to run in the direction of the house.

 The two were almost to the gate of the privacy fence when the captain screamed in agony and stumbled, falling to the ground and losing his hold on Harold. Finch ended up sprawled across the back of the pilot’s legs, chest first.

Harold had lost his glasses, but as he pushed himself off the other man’s legs, he could see the splinter of wood that had impaled itself into Avery’s thigh like a spear.

The storm’s fury was nearing. The retired captain was still alive, but unconscious; they weren’t going anywhere. Harold dragged his body over the injured man’s covering it with his own. Finch couldn’t save himself; there was no escaping his fate this time, but maybe he could save the pilot.

The wind was tearing at his clothes, the noise was deafening, and Finch closed his eyes praying silently to a god he had never truly believed in that it would be over quickly and painlessly.

“I know I have done nothing to earn a second chance. I don’t deserve my John. Take me if you will and spare Captain Avery. If you want my life as forfeit, take it...I have no right to ask, can you please watch out for John Reese, he’s a good man.”

***

John was in the office trailer waiting on Cal’s decision on whether the crew should call it a day or keep on harvesting. While the overcast sky above was still a flat greenish gray as it had been all afternoon, all around them numerous thunderheads were towering upwards, tops flattening when reaching the gray ceiling, most dissipating soon after. Others seemed to spread themselves like gigantic blue curtains billowing downwards. The smell of rain filled the air. Hanging Moss was surrounded by the threatening weather.

Reese hadn’t heard the ringtone he had set for Harold’s calls sound off nor felt the cell phone vibrate when Harold had phoned him. John hadn't even noticed he had left the phone on the seat of the truck until he reached into his jeans pocket planning on giving Harold a call himself.

After going back out and getting in the truck, Reese picked up the phone, seeing he had two voicemails when the phone lit up to the main screen. To say John was deliriously happy hearing Finch’s voice telling John that he was returning early minus his two minions was a huge understatement.

Templeton decided to let everyone off early, asking them to be back at 6 am if the weather held. He stressed the _IF_ and then warned them all the weather was going to get worse; please use their good judgment and head for the storm shelter before it might be too late.

Everyone knew of the concrete building built into the mound of soil and rocks so small that it couldn’t even be considered a hill. John’s father had it constructed after the storm that claimed John’s grandparent’s lives. It was old, but still more sound than the pre-fabricated ones on the market today. It had been maintained without fail through the years; although those inside would be cramped together there was enough room for all the plantation residents. 

Maybe if John hadn’t had his mind occupied by other things he would have been there to heed the foreman’s warnings to everyone. As it were Reese had bolted back out of the office the moment Cal had told everyone to go home. “Be back at six…” were the only words John heard before the door clicked shut behind him.

It would be several hours before Finch's helicopter would arrive; plenty of time for John to have Mrs. Moseley prepare and pack up a meal he could take to the farmhouse to surprise Harold with.

John didn’t think the clouds would offer up anything more than the occasional downpour. The doom and gloom that Cal had been predicting had yet to materialize; most of the money crop had been harvested already and sold at the mill; Hanging Moss was going to make its first substantial profit in recent memory thanks to Finch.

They deserved to celebrate. Besides, it would be romantic to eat by candlelight listening to the rain falling outside.

John wasn’t sure what Harold had accepted yesterday, his off-handed marriage proposal or the offer to share ownership of the plantation. If it were the former, John thought of his father's gold wedding band that his mother gave him soon after cancer took the elder John Reese; it was too small for John's larger fingers but just right for Harold’s smaller ones. It was nothing fancy, just a plain gold band and maybe it wasn’t John’s place in their relationship to do the proposing, but seeing in his mind’s eye Harold’s face filled with love as he slipped the ring on Harold’s finger just felt...right.

Reese went upstairs to shower and change after being shooed away by his romantic-at-heart housekeeper. The woman was already planning out loud as she headed in the opposite direction towards the kitchen, not phased in the least at having to change dinner plans at the last moment.

John was sitting on the bed pulling on his last boot when a bolt of lightning lit up his room. It made him blink, not unlike the bright white flashes that left blue spots dancing in front of his eyes when his mother would take indoor pictures on her old Brownie camera. The window rattling boom of thunder shook the room immediately after if not simultaneous with it. The storm Cal had been predicting wasn’t on its way: it was already there.

Reese fled the room even before his vision cleared. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Moseley dropped the casserole dish she had been holding as she numbly left the kitchen. She put one hand to her mouth and pointed out the huge picture window of the dining room. What had been at one time a dark gray overcast day outside had turned into a scene from a _Weather Channel_ documentary.

Debris was flying in every direction; the wind was so strong that the mighty oaks lining the lane were bent to where their limbs were touching the ground. There was no time to get to the shelter; they would be killed before reaching it. He yelled at Cook who was dressed in paint covered overalls to take his wife into the downstairs bathroom off the study, Harold’s bedroom now, and pull the mattress off that bed. Cook had weathered Louisiana storms before. He’d be lying in the bathtub, his wife beside him under the mattress within minutes.

John knew he should have followed right behind them, hunkered down in the small inner room to wait out the storm’s wrath, but a prickling at the back of his neck caused him instead to duck underneath the staircase. There was no answer when he pulled his phone from his pocket and tried to call Finch; no transfer to voicemail either each time, just two rings and dead air.

Surely the pilot reversed course before the helicopter and their passenger were caught up in the storm. It was then, even above the deafening roar of the angry wind, Reese heard the even louder shrill of an aircraft’s engine in distress.

Without regard for his own safety, John was out the door, fighting with an inhuman strength against the gale’s relentless force pushing against him to get into his pickup and was speeding down the lane towards the farmhouse. John ignored the voice of reason as he sped into the monster’s path. _This is suicide!_   “I won’t turn back if that means living my life without Finch!” John shouted.  His words were barely audible even to his own ears above the high pitched wail of winds outside.

John crashed the pickup through the closed gate and around the house just as the helicopter swooped in a wide arc to land with a jolting bounce on the landing pad twenty feet ahead. John could drive no closer without reversing course and then circle around the garage through the stand of pecan trees to reach the helicopter. Reese got out of the Chevy trying and making it the rest of the way on foot.

It did no good to shout when he saw the pilot climb from the helicopter, then pull Finch out of it onto his shoulders and run towards the house. John’s scream, “Finch!” went unheard also when he saw the pilot fall to the ground. All John could do was keep struggling forward as his clothing and flesh were shredded by whatever the twister could hurl at him.

Something large, hard, and solid took out his ankle causing Reese to fall to the ground. John crawled the remaining feet to reach Harold who was now covering the pilot’s body with his own.

~~~

Harold tried to will it away as the hand belonging to the man he was praying for grabbed at his arm, tightening the grip as if John would never let go. As the wind howled and screeched like thousands of tormented souls and the ground beneath them shook, John’s words echoed in Harold’s ear as if they were in an empty, silent room, “I can't live without you. I won’t.” 

The hand grabbing at Harold's arm let go and wrapped itself around his waist. One of John’s legs settled between Harold’s. John’s other hand slid under them both intertwining their fingers together. John buried his forehead into Finch’s neck. “I love you Harold, you were always the only one.”

Harold felt rather than heard Reese’s voice, Finch’s ear drums seemed to be bursting inside his head. All Harold could do now was squeeze back and move their clasped hands underneath his heart. If it were to beat its last it would be for John Reese. Harold had just the one regret; the twenty years they had lost because he, Harold Finch, had been a fool. “I’m so sorry, John.” Harold’s sob was caught up in the deafening roar; he only hoped John understood the words Harold’s lips pressed against Reese’s head.

The two men held each other close, their bodies shielding the pilot’s underneath them. Harold took one breath then all went black, the back of his head exploding with pain before darkness and silence.

_~~~_

Harold tried to turn onto his back before a gentle hand; a female hand clutched his shoulder. “Stay the way you are,” a voice warned quietly. The hand then reached over to remove a wet cloth from the side of his head, only to cover it again a moment later with another filled with ice pieces, cooling and soothing. “You have a nasty gash below your ear, and your back looks like someone took a giant cheese grater to it but the EMT says you’ll be right as rain in a week. No need to go to hospital.”

Harold forced one eye open then the other to see he was lying on his side, bare chested, covered from the waist down by the sheet and blanket of his bed. He was alive somehow; Harold Finch’s version of heaven was here in this room and in this bed, but he was sure the afterlife didn't include his feeling like an ice pick was lodged in his ear canal or his backside was being clawed at by a thousand cats with talons dipped in acid.

Finch held still as much as he could while raising his head to search the small bedroom. He managed to croak out, “John? Where’s John?” Harold felt the tiny prick to his arm as the voice said, “Don’t worry. He’s just fine. He’s sleeping as you should be.”

Before the sedative had a chance to pull him under, Finch looked across the room. Reese was snoring softly, lying on his back on a small cot, leg propped up on a pillow, his ankle covered in a blue walking cast, and John was quite oblivious to what was going in the double bed not three feet away.

Mrs. Moseley sat down on the bed, close to Harold but only enough to run a hand comfortingly up and down his arm, “Cook and I found the three of you only minutes after the twister went back into the sky. You were buried under a part of the garage roof, all three of you miraculously alive. The ambulance with the Fire and Rescue vehicles arrived soon after. John was barely conscious and could hardly stand let alone walk, but he picked you up and carried you in here. He wouldn't let anyone touch him until he was sure you were alive and would live. The ambulance left eventually with the pilot, but not you two. John kept saying he would take care of you. Just him! No one else; he repeated it over and over like a madman. The EMT’s finally had to blitz attack him with a powerful sedative and put him on that cot to treat him. Hope those people get hazard pay. Johnny put up a hell of a fight. You sleep now; we’re going to need you to calm the beast when he finally wakes.” Harold reached out towards the cot. “John…”

~~~

The sun was already high in a now cloudless sky when John awoke the next morning. He was overwhelmed with a deep want to punch someone or something when he jerked himself upright. A stab of pain as he swung his legs off the cot curtailed that need for immediate violence.

There was the smell of fresh brewed coffee coming in the cracked open bedroom door and the sound of someone humming as they walked through it.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Mrs. Moseley stopped short nearly dumping the contents of the laden breakfast tray she was carrying. John followed her gaze as she looked over towards the occupant of the double bed.

_Harold?_

Finch was lying on his left side, a bandage covering the majority of his head behind the right ear. Harold was bare chested with a multitude of smaller gauze pieces taped to his rib cage and the portion of his back John could see from where he sat on the cot. Harold’s eyes were closed, but John could see the steady rise and fall of Harold’s chest as he breathed in and out.

The housekeeper hurriedly put the tray on the nightstand and tried to keep John sitting to no avail. John got up, pushing aside her hands, stood, ignored the pain, and hobbled over to the doubled bed. John’s ankle gave out and he landed with a thud next to the sleeping man. Mrs. Moseley held her breath as she watched Harold open sleepy eyes and then whisper, “John.” She turned and soundlessly left the room.

“Hey?” Reese ran a hand through Harold’s hair before lightly touching Finch’s bandaged head. “You okay?”

“I’m fine; a little worse for wear is all.” Harold smiled widely seeing John alert and sitting beside him. Harold pulled the covers aside and patted the mattress next to him. “Just need to sleep with you beside me for now.”

Mrs. Moseley checked on them two hours later and found John Reese lying on his side, spooned up with his back against Harold’s chest. Harold’s arm was thrown over Reese’s side, clutching the younger man close. Both were sleeping, breathing in perfect synique.

The housekeeper left a note on the counter. _Supper is in the fridge, just reheat. Call the mansion if you need me._ She closed the back door, looking around at the debris strewn yard. Tomorrow would start a new day. The elderly woman got in her and her husband’s old Fairlane and the two left for the plantation house. They both smiled as the car moved down the lane. The stars always burn their brightest after the storm.

~~*~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They live, together, the rest of their lives.  
> An epilogue to follow.  
> A new generation of Reeses at Hanging Moss


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's and Harold's life together after the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an exceedingly long Epilogue.  
> I don't want to leave the story of these guys and writing more and more let me hold on to them a bit longer.
> 
> Note: this chapter contains explicit sexual dialogue and is denoted by *** beforehand  
> and once again where it stops

_One year later_

John stopped his cane truck outside the office. Harold would be inside hunched over a computer screen, Cal sitting next to him pointing out this line of figures or an article on the latest sugarcane variety developed by the LSU agricultural department.

Reese was fairly sure the answer would be no, but he just had to stop in to ask if his fiancé wanted to take a break, get out into the fresh air, and go along on John’s last delivery to the mill for the day.

It was just that Finch had figuratively jumped in with both feet to learn everything he could about running a plantation the immediate day following the evening John had proposed, when he’d slipped the thin gold band of his father’s on Harold’s finger. Harold wasn’t going to take even an hour’s break from his practically dawn to dusk agronomic crash course until he could run the plantation forwards, backwards, and sideways. He was nothing if not tenacious and determined to learn it all by the time they left for New York City in two days.

It had taken months following the twister to repair the damage done to the plantation. Although it could have been much, much worse; doing the minor repairs to almost every building, the replanting of lost vegetation, and replacing ruined equipment had still taken nearly nine months.

The two of them had recouped from their own physical injuries in less time, but once John proposed that night – he’d worn real boots on both feet that first day returning to work and in their goodbyes for the morning, they’d both been able to touch the other without worrying about causing  pain, the injuries on their storm ravaged torsos no more than barely visible newcomers to the myriad of previously healed markings – John had asked, Harold only nodded yes, having lost his ability to speak and their lives were turned upside down. 

Wedding plans were insanity, changed twenty times at least during a good week and even now, two days away the only things consistent were that the guest list would be small, the wedding venue was the terraced rooftop garden above Finch’s New York City penthouse apartment and the reception party would be at the _NYC-WFT_ building’s ginormous event room large enough that anyone – mainly _WFT_ people from corporate execs down to hourly wage employees of the New York City area and those worldwide able to come to the city who still held the co-founder in high esteem – not invited to the wedding ceremony could attend if they wished.

Morganville was catching up with the times, but it was their first and the only set in stone decision made to date, that they didn’t want their impending nuptials to be fodder for a debate on same sex marriage, hence New York City.  Harold had insisted though that they arrange for the small twelve passenger jet _WFT-Dallas_ owned to fly the people from Morganville invited to the wedding to the Big Apple.

Of course that was only when the two of them could even eke out the time to plan for the wedding because of Harold’s decision to be an active partner in the running of the plantation and his obsession about learning the business side of things. Harold had crossed his arms and stated point blank, “As much as I love accompanying you about as you do your part, I want to contribute. Although I am incapable of doing physical labor any longer I can still use my head and my hands.” John decided two days into Cal’s taking on Harold as a protégé and seeing firsthand the wizened old manager's infinite patience with Finch, that Cal Templeton would be rewarded a substantial piece of the plantation when he retired to do with as he pleased.

Then came the unexpected news that Sameen and Robert had married in NYC the same day as the storm, but had kept silent until just a few weeks ago when they gave their notices – which left John not taking no for an answer that he would take the exam to become a licensed physical therapist, Finch’s PT to be exact and Harold interviewing anyone male or female who could field strip any weapon blindfolded, take out any threat barehanded, and could cook, clean, or shop like a whirling dervish. Harold had come a long way with his distrust of people and their cruelty believing that John would be his protector and shield, but Campbell’s words and actions had cut deep so no one denied Finch of finding another safety net the likes of Sameen Shaw.

Robert and Sameen ultimately had agreed to stay in Louisiana, Robert started doing physical therapy at the local hospital and Sameen opened a studio in nearby Tennyson where she taught self-defense classes to women. John and Harold gave them the farmhouse and its separate 1,000 acres as a wedding gift.

Their world now and dealing with all the craziness in it didn’t even give the men time to sleep at night let alone sleep together. John Reese couldn’t have been happier...regardless. John would hold Harold close at night, “I’ve waited over twenty years to make love with you again; I can wait another week.” Unfortunately the week became weeks and then months.

Harold was already out of bed when John awoke. It was their day, finally. He rolled over and grabbed his cell to call his housekeeper. Yes she was sure she couldn’t go to NYC, her health unfortunately, and yes, she would make sure all of Harold’s belongings plus everything of John’s that had migrated to the farmhouse as the two men recouped there would be moved to the mansion. Yes, she would make sure the alterations would be completely finished by the time they returned; there would be no part of the mansion that Finch couldn’t have access to or be able to use, it was going to be his home now for as long as he lived. John ended the call, stretched and yawned, then padded barefoot out of the room in search of his husband-to-be.

He’d found Finch already bathed and dressed waiting at the kitchen table. John put it down to wedding day jitters when Harold looked at him peevishly and grumbled, “You’re not dressed? Have you even showered? Never mind, sit down and eat first.” As they ate breakfast Harold insisted that he would be driving the four of them – yes Sameen, Harold’s best person and Robert, John’s best man, were in the wedding party – in his new wheelchair conversion van to the Baton Rouge airport.

John barely had time to jab his last sausage link with his fork when Sameen jumped up from the table and started grabbing their dirty plates and silverware to put in the sink full of soapy water. She’d tapped her foot impatiently holding out her hand for the fork John took his last bite of food from before she groused to her own husband and Harold’s future one, “Rob, you get the luggage out to the van while I clean up in here. John, you better move your ass and get ready.”

Twenty minutes later John – showered, shaved, and dressed – slid into the van’s front passenger seat. Almost before he could get his right foot inside and close the door, Harold gunned the vehicle making the rear drive wheels squeal in protest. John reached across resting a hand on Finch’s knee, “Easy there Harold, we have plenty of time.”

Reese soon found out Harold wasn’t rushed because he was worried about being late for their wedding; he was excited to give John his wedding gift to him.

Harold drove them to the section of the airfield used by private aircraft, mainly jets, and parked in one of the spaces reserved for… _JR Enterprises_.

Harold looked over at John, waved a hand in an arc that included the space with the name, an obvious newly constructed hangar painted yellow – _JR Enterprises_ painted in BOLD green lettering above the double sliding doors, below an oak tree mural spanned over both doors – and ended with a friendly wave to a tall figure dressed in a uniform. A civilian pilot’s uniform consisting of a yellow shirt and army dress green pants and the pilot – none other than retired Captain Avery.

John turned to his husband-to-be. “What’s all this?”

“Your wedding present,” Harold beamed.

Sameen and Patrick got out of the van, walked around to the rear and began unloading their bags onto a luggage trolley Patrick had procured from somewhere. When they walked towards Avery and followed him into the hangar, Harold pulled a briefcase from under the seat and opened it to hand John some legal documents.

John read them through and looked over at Harold, “Is this true?”

Harold nodded yes enthusiastically before saying, “I had planned to turn the title to Hanging Moss and its holdings back over to you; then with the storm, our recovery, the plantation’s damage being repaired, and everything else, it just got pushed into the background. And then you proposed. Returning to you what was rightfully yours seemed inadequate as my gift to you. Raymond Kensington is an excellent business lawyer and he arranged at my behest to merge a third of my ownership in _WFT_ and half of Hanging Moss to form _JR Enterprises_ with you John Reese as the sole owner. It’s yours and yours alone, John. I signed a prenup that it be exempt from our communal property.”

Harold snapped his fingers together and looked over at the yellow building, “Oh I forgot to mention, this hangar and the jet inside is yours too. The only thing I ask is that you allow Captain Avery to be your flight instructor; I know that’s the one thing you were never trained for no matter how many times you put in your request, to learn how to fly. Once you get your pilot’s license can you please fly us where we need to go? My luck, three times - two storms, flying in helicopters is running out.”

Harold looked at John expectantly.

 _Does this man ever stop giving?_ John said the only thing he could, “I can't accept all this.” And when Harold’s face began to fall he quickly added, “Not unless we change the name to _J **H** R Enterprises_ and you tear up that damned prenup.”

###

John had never been inside a penthouse apartment before but knew they could be quite extravagant. Harold’s was that and so much more. It was opulent. He glanced over at his soon to be husband who was having a discussion with the wedding planner he’d hired to see that everything in New York was taken care of before their arrival. John just couldn’t believe this unique man was going to marry him. Harold was someone who could own a place like this and yet be more comfortable living in camp tents or an old farmhouse. He was truly one of a kind and he loved John.

When Harold wheeled his way back over he said, “Everything's ready upstairs. After I take you around to meet my friends, we’ll need to go get dressed.

John was formally introduced to Raymond Kensington; although they already knew each other through those DVDs he sent the lawyer, and Raymond’s wife. He then met Arthur Whitmore and his wife.

Lastly he was introduced to Nathaniel Stewart and his wife. As John shook the man's hand, he felt the urge to either punch the man in the face for hurting Harold or hug the man for giving Harold up when the two had been in college.

Nate pulled John to the side, “I can see you don’t like me very much for what I did to Harold when we were kids, but I still love the guy and nothing could please me more than to see that he’s found the one he’s truly meant to be with. Harold and I put my mistake past us years ago.

Just then a girl of maybe eleven or twelve came over to wrap her arms around the tall blond man’s legs and he hugged her to him, “This is my youngest daughter Kim and she demanded to be Uncle Harold’s flower girl.”

The situation diffused, John lowered himself eye level with the child, “It’s nice to meet you Kim; I guess you may call me Uncle John then.”

The guests assembled were all friends of Harold’s and it really didn’t bother John that the only two people closest to him couldn’t be here; only Cal Templeton and his wife and the four Hanging Moss employees along with their spouses –  friends but not dear friends –  had decided to come. If John didn’t know what a truly amazing man his fiancé was, if he didn’t understand it now, then he never would. Harold had managed to track down the only two real friends he had ever made, former Army Rangers like him, and invited them to John’s wedding.

John only had time to shake the hands of his former comrades-in-arms before the planner herded the guests upstairs and the wedding party was shown where to get dressed.

John was the first up on the roof and was shown to a unique set up under an arbor covered in ivy and blue flowers of varying varieties. Everyone except Harold would kneel on padded benches the height where everyone including the Justice of the Peace would be at Harold’s level.

There wasn’t much time before the ceremony would commence but John had time to consult with the planner about an idea he had to surprise Harold. The woman nodded as John asked her if she could arrange what he needed done, explaining why and her smile grew wider.

“Leave the arrangements to me. I am very good at my job. Now let’s get you married,” the woman patted his arm reassuringly, then rushed back downstairs to find the other groom.

The ceremony itself seemed to last only a few moments. John watched as Robert helped Harold into the wheelchair waiting by the door.

Robert then walked up the short aisle to stand by John, with Kim the flower girl following him. John stood tall when Sameen pushed Harold in his chair toward him.

When they were in their places Sameen winked at her husband who was staring at her and the dress she wore. “What, you thought I was going to wear fatigues and combat boots to Harold’s wedding?’ she asked low enough that only the three of them heard her.

The ceremony seemed to last only a minute or so from the time the JP said please kneel and the newlyweds were kissing. They’d given their vows to each other, placed matching wedding rings on one another's fingers and were pronounced married with the JP introducing the married couple as Masters John and Harold Reese.

With that John scooped Harold up into his arms and carried him back down the aisle with the male guests applauding respectfully and the females shedding joyous tears.

He carried Harold down the staircase, into the elevator, and out to the waiting limo where it took them to the reception.

The _WFT-NYC_ event room was filled with hundreds of well-wishers who drank champagne, ate slices of the 10 tiered cherry-almond wedding cake, and joined the newlyweds to dance with them after their heartstrings had been tugged watching John carrying Harold around the dance floor, swaying to the slow music of their first dance.

John and Harold left the reception, with only Sameen, Robert, Ray, Arthur, and Nate riding down in the elevator along with them, as the two newlyweds made their way down to the limousine parked outside. The _WFT_ executive limo was waiting to take them to the Ritz Carlton and its luxurious honeymoon suite.

There was only the one uniformed sentry seated at the security station watching the monitors when the group exited the elevator. The lobby was empty otherwise which allowed the five to make their well wishes in privacy without shouting over the joyous but still extremely loud cacophony of the reception party still going on on the 20th floor.

Harold’s longtime friends shook hands with John, their words to the groom basically were the same; thank you for making Harold so happy; he hasn’t had the best dealings with people in his personal life especially with that bitch Campbell; take good care of him.

With the three finished speaking and their eyes all on him, John just shook his head as he looked over at Harold who was talking with Robert and Sameen across the room near the door. John promised, “I will do my best to never disappoint him in any way,” then added, “Only it’s more likely that he will be the one taking care of me.”

When the three men went over to speak with Harold, Sameen slipped away to stand in front of John to take her turn with her best friend’s new husband. She stood on her toes to kiss John’s cheek and threw her arms around his neck. Sameen laughed brightly then whispered in John’s ear, “You better not hurt him or you’ll be dealing with me.”

Anyone looking their way would think the two were gaily exchanging best wishes, but John heard the threat, no the promise in her words. Sameen Shaw now Sameen Parker did more than anyone else to get them together, but Harold was her best friend forever and she loved him. No one, not even John himself, was going to hurt Harold and go unpunished.

John grinned for show, then bent his head and responded low enough so only she could hear, “I have loved and waited for that man most of my life. I could never do anything to harm him in any way. If I do, I’ll deserve the worst you could do to me.”

Sameen let go of John and stood back to look him square in the eye. Her expression said, “We have an understanding.” All at once the face of the gal brimming with happiness to have been Harold’s best person appeared once again when Sameen turned to the rest of the group and then suggested lewdly while elbowing John in the side, “We better get these two out the door, they can’t start their **_honeymoon_** stuck here with us all night.”

Once in the limo, they waved goodbye to their friends as it pulled away from the curb then Reese hit the control to close the door’s window. John raised the privacy screen and moved closer to his new spouse. Turning slightly he slid one arm under both Harold’s knees; the other he slipped between the seat and Harold’s lower back. With a needy moan John moved to lean back against the seat while pulling Harold onto his lap. 

John shuddered when Harold began to run his hands up and down the front of the luxurious material of John’s tuxedo. At the third upsweep of his hands, Harold loosened John’s bow tie and undid the top buttons of John’s shirt so he could slide his fingers under the garment’s collar. As Harold ran his fingertips over John’s neck and the pads of his thumbs along John’s jawline, his touch was light as a downy feather against John’s skin. He moved his head close with his lips a hair’s breadth from John’s. Harold rasped low with urgency, “I don’t think I can wait much longer to see you bared the rest of the way, to see what’s mine, and to run my hands over every inch of your body.”

When Harold claimed John’s lips in a kiss that was hard, passionate, and possessive, something inside John broke and shattered into an infinite number of invisible pieces. The pent up hurt, the sadness, and the hopeless futility of never having or belonging to the one person he needed in the world, all those feelings that John kept locked and hidden away even from himself were released into the ether. John felt truly loved and wanted since the first time the man he was now married to claimed John’s heart and body in that far away land so long ago. They had found their way back to each almost two years ago, only it wasn’t until this moment as Harold devoured his lips that John truly believed he was Harold’s and Harold was his, forever.

When Harold opened his mouth, John plunged his tongue inside to taste the flavor of champagne and almond cherry. John thought he would come prematurely and quite messily in his boxers, staining the front of his exquisitely tailored tuxedo pants when Harold sucked on John’s tongue, while flicking the tip of his against John’s. The thought of Harold’s sweet mouth rounding over the head of his cock, sucking him in while Harold’s tongue lathed at the slit was almost his undoing.

When Harold pulled away to catch his breath and let John catch his, John panted, “Let’s slow down, shall we? I might end up letting you have me in the back of this limo and I really want to wait until we are back at your penthouse.”

Harold blushed slightly at his boldness and nodded his assent. “It would be a bit more romantic making love to my new husband in the decadently luxurious bed of the Carlton’s honeymoon suite. .... Wait. What? My penthouse? What about the Ritz Carlton? We had reservations there. I made them myself months ago.”

John waggled his eyebrows and smirked mischievously, “You’re not the only one who had a surprise planned for the day. Besides Robert and Sameen might kick us out of the suite if we interrupted their belated honeymoon at the Carlton.”

“You let them use our room?” Harold asked sounding shocked and upset but the half smile on his face, the one John found so endearing and the one Harold was trying to suppress unsuccessfully showed John something else.

“Uh-huh.” John ran his hand up and down Harold’s back lightly, “You're not really upset, are you?” and moved the other from under Harold’s legs to join the other, before clasping them together at Harold’s side.

Harold gave up trying to pretend to be annoyed that John had changed where they would be spending their wedding night; at a posh hotel, his penthouse, an old farmhouse, or a tent in a desert somewhere: location didn’t really matter at all. Harold just leaned in to kiss John some more when he felt the arms around him tighten.

Their kisses were almost chaste this time even though they only broke apart long enough to catch a breath and they kept their touches light, flirty almost the rest of the drive to the penthouse.

The driver’s intercom crackled to life, “We have arrived at your building Mr. Finch.”

Harold sat up and reached out to press a button on the console, “Thank you George, and it’s Mr. Reese now.”

“Of course sir.” The driver’s intercom clicked off and within a few minutes George opened the doors to assist his passengers from the car.

***

There were flower arrangements all about the apartment that had been outside in the gardens during the wedding ceremony, but other than that there was nothing in the suite showing that three hours earlier it had been a madhouse. The penthouse was spotless; the cleaning service had swooped in seconds after the last wedding attendee had walked out the door headed for the reception.

John pushed his new husband of two hours in his wheelchair into the center of the living room, not the bedroom surprising Harold, then helped Harold take off his tuxedo jacket after first removing his own. John took both jackets into the bedroom; Harold could hear him opening the wardrobe doors before he returned to the living room empty handed.

Only John headed towards the staircase access to the rooftop garden instead of towards Harold, only pausing long enough at the first step to say, “I’ll be right back.”

Harold heard the door to the roof top open and then close seconds later followed by John’s tread on the staircase as he descended down; in three strides of his long legs John was standing in front of where he’d left Harold waiting.

John removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt halfway before toeing off his dress shoes. He then knelt down to remove Harold’s shoes; for each foot he removed its sock, lifted its footrest out of the way and placed the bare appendage on the carpet. He then placed a hand on each of his husband's knees running them up Harold’s thighs, belly, and chest until he reached Harold's neck. John undid the tie with deft fingers and slid it from around Harold’s neck. He tossed it in the direction of the coffee table before undoing the buttons at the top half of Harold’s dress shirt.

With curious eyes Harold watched John stand back up, and wrapped his arms around his husband’s neck when John lifted him from his chair and started walking towards the staircase. The look on John’s face was a combination of mischievousness, excitement, and unbridled happiness when he grinned and teased, “My turn.”

John asked that Harold close his eyes before opening the door. When he said, “Open them,” Harold had to actual blink hard to make sure he was seeing a tent made of a sheer nearly see through material set up in the midst of the garden, white sand leading to the tent’s opening. “This isn’t an army tent in the middle of the Saudi desert I know, but I wanted our first time together as newlyweds to be like our first time,” John drawled as he carried Harold through the fluttering curtain entrance.

It wasn’t a camp bed that John sat Harold upon but an almost knee high cushion covered with red satin sheets topped with a red velour throw and pillows with cases that matched the sheets.

John took one of the pillows and placed it on the floor to kneel upon; again he placed a hand on each of Harold’s knees, running them up as far as the last button of Harold’s shirt he had unfastened. He worked his way down to the waistband of Harold’s tuxedo pants, undid its button to pull the shirt tails out, and worked the last two buttons of the shirt free. Harold’s cuff links came next; John put them in his pocket before he helped Harold take his arms out of the sleeves.

John tugged Harold’s undershirt up enough to grab the hem and help Harold out of the garment. When Harold’s chest was bared to him, he ran his hands adoringly over the graying brown chest hair and traced his fingers very lightly over Harold’s scars: old and new.

John stood back up after a few minutes of touching and helped Harold to lie down on the cushion. He leaned down then to undo the buttons of Harold’s fly so he could finish undressing him. Once John slid Harold’s boxers down his legs and off, he tossed them to the tent’s floor with the rest of Harold's clothes. John looked down at Harold completely naked in front of him for the first time since John was only nineteen. Of course the injuries and the years had taken their toll on Harold's body, but even so John needed to love this man and have him love him back now more than ever. John had changed physically too and he began to strip slowly out of his own clothes to let Harold see just how much.

Harold lay back into the pillows that John had arranged behind him to watch his new husband’s slow, deliberate, exibitionalist removal of his own clothes. It was as if John intended to ramp up Harold’s desire, to have him heat up with the need to touch and it was working; Harold felt as if any moment he would combust, his fingers were twitching restlessly with the need to touch. Frustratingly John remained out of his reach.

At last his husband stood naked before him. Harold’s eyes drifted from John’s chest, the letters HF on John’s left peck below his heart – John had told him one day when Harold was tending to his injuries from the storm that he had the letters tattooed there only weeks after their first time together and never had them removed or inked ove – the taut muscles of his stomach still hard and lean from his years in the military and now actively working his plantation, John’s semi-erect cock, down long powerful legs, and back up – to John’s manhood once again.

Harold swallowed hard; manhood was never a more apt term. John’s cock was no longer the blushing pink of a teenage man-child, but was thick – long even still half-hard, dusky, lined with thick blue veins, the head deep red – the color of John’s lips. When John stroked himself a few times and asked, “You like?” Harold groaned, “Yessss!”

Even in the faint glow from the lanterns outside John could see the pupils of Harold’s eyes blow wide with desire, a flush creep down his face and neck not from the warmth of the air around them, and his fingers tapping restlessly where they rested on the cushion next to his sides.

John had felt himself grow hard watching Harold’s reactions to his strip tease. He almost regretted stroking himself when he heard the gulp Harold had made when his perusal of John’s nude body passed over John’s erection briefly only to return focus on it wantonly. If he hadn’t gripped his cock almost painfully at Harold’s _yes_ , he would have come in his own hand.

Done with making his husband wait, done with making his own body wait, John stretched out alongside Harold on his side. John laid one hand on Harold’s chest, the other arm he draped above his head; John ghosted his fingers on Harold’s body from his lips, down his neck, chest, and stomach following the trail the fingers made with tiny kisses. When his fingers reached Harold's groin John wrapped his hand around Harold’s cock, hard, hot, and oozing beads of precum from John’s attentions. His actions weren’t followed by another kiss this time but a light stroke up and down the hardened appendage in his grasp, “Let me taste you.” John rasped.

Harold’s needy whimper was permission enough even if Harold hadn't put has hand on the back of John’s head and slightly pushed it towards his cock. John breathed in the scent of soap and Harold’s own musk before opening his mouth and sucking in the tip. He tongued the slit, licking the precum into his mouth.

Harold shivered when John’s, “Mmmm, so good,” vibrated around him. John sucked the head completely into his mouth swirling his tongue over it, in and out of the slit as the sweet nectar kept oozing out, trying to gather each drop until he felt a tug at his hair and heard the almost pleading noises Harold was making. When he pulled off to look up, he realized Harold had been trying to get his attention.

John asked with concern, “I’m not hurting you am I?”

“No, oh god no,” Harold panted and breathlessly said, “I want, I need to feel you in my mouth too.”

John’s erection jerked thumping against Harold’s leg at that. Two quick deep breaths and John carefully hovered his body over Harold’s – knees at Harold’s shoulders and John’s head over his sweet treat once more. John lowered his cock to Harold's eager mouth.

John’s mind whited out at the first suck from Harold's small, greedy mouth. When John could think again, he wrapped his own lips around the swollen head below him.

Pure bliss is all he knew for a while. The heat of Harold in John’s mouth tasted familiar but different. Only Harold has been with John this way, only Harold gets John’s mouth, John’s tongue. It feels like John’s been parched, thirsty for twenty years and only Harold could quench the need.

John involuntarily thrust into Harold’s mouth. Harold hummed his approval then pulled off. “It’s okay John to do that. It's easier on my back if you just … fuck my mouth.”

John’s groan turned into a whimper when Harold started sucking again. John took a few gentle thrusts, still jacking Harold’s dick slowly in his hand. They established a rhythm and when he was sure Harold was okay John popped Harold’s cock head back where it belonged.

Harold urged John to take small breaks every so often. His husband was working so hard to get him off. Harold wanted to enjoy his own orgasm, but he got so close to ejaculating; that he was afraid when he recovered from the throes of orgasmic bliss he’d be so spent he wouldn't be able to give John his release; Harold needed to give him that and observe. So John moved off and around so he could kiss Harold, tasting himself there on Harold’s tongue; it was intoxicating.

When John reverse mounted him again, Harold held John still and looked at the tempting backside in front of him. John’s ass is a work of art. The strong, well developed globes claim each side of a pink, hairy valley. He squeezed John’s asscheeks; John made several sounds of pleasure and the winking hole contracted every time.

Harold took John’s hips and started to move them close to his face. John is tall, near five inches taller than Harold. Yes, some of the height is in his long, sculpted legs, but some of it is in his torso, which means that Harold doesn’t have to move much to get his mouth aligned with the puckered star near John’s perineum.

They had never done this their first time together so Harold nosed the area, giving John plenty of time to reject what Harold wanted. John instead shivered and bobbed his head more aggressively, as if the idea made him hornier if that were possible. Harold smiled against the soft skin that few have ever seen including the sun judging by the paleness of John’s rear.

Now that consent had been given, Harold went to work on his prize. He licked his own lips to moisten them completely. He tilted his head back minutely then pulled John’s ass to his face. The wrinkled skin of John’s anus was hot. John didn’t startle when Harold began t0 lick but he did clench down around this special kiss.

Harold sunk into a mindless joy of experiencing John's talented mouth and his rise to orgasm along with the task of sopping John’s hole with his spit.

Everything he was feeling became sharper, brighter. Technicolor sparks flew behind his eyelids when the sight before became too much. When he tongue fucked John, his husband rumbled loudly around his erection, vibrating up Harold’s spine to coalesce in his damaged hips.

Harold came with a force of a hurricane.

His hips wanted to thrust up but can’t; he wants everything he has to be in John. His tongue speared deep into John’s ass as his balls erupted. Harold practically screamed into John’s ass while spurting into John’s mouth: filling up the man he loves with everything he is and every emotion he has ever had.

John can take it. In fact John has been begging for it from the start. Harold needn't fear that this will hurt John, or that John can’t bear the load. This is the life John chose, fought for and won. Harold would never disrespect his new husband by holding anything back. He let it all shine forth, all the hurt, all the pain, all frustration and longing, all the sacrifice. Everything that he had become was for John now.

The rush of it is overwhelming; Harold slammed his head back onto the pillow. He trembled almost violently. John licked him clean while Harold caught his breath.

Once the shaking had stopped, Harold attacked John’s hole with renewed vigor. He ruthlessly pumped John’s cock making the man pant above him. Harold is determined to feel his husband cum all over him.

John was making deliciously abandoned sounds. He thrust his hips seeking more from Harold’s hand while simultaneously fucking himself on Harold’s tongue.

Harold felt the convulsion start in John’s anus, the shiver that drew up John’s heavy sack. Harold’s hand gripped harder, his tongue sought out every inch. Finally, John wailed his completion, covering Harold with semen, smashing his ass against Harold’s face. John was truly spent. He collapsed on his side, breathing hard and blinking. John looked over at Harold as if he had never seen the man before. “You are a wonder to behold.”

Harold smiled shyly.

###

Harold woke up in his bedroom early the next morning. He remembered John carrying him back downstairs to use the bathroom and very little if anything after that.

John was lying next to him on his left side to Harold’s right. Harold opened his eyes to a slightly fuzzy room and reached for his glasses on the nightstand.  John picked them up instead to put them on Harold's face and then leaned over him to ask fondly, “Morning Mr. Reese, did you have a nice nap?”

Harold yawned and stretched, “I believe I did. I just don’t remember how we got into this bed. Oh and how well did you sleep, Mr. Reese?””

John give a quick peck to Harold’s forehead, “That’s good. You were spent, hot, and already trying to nod off when I carried you downstairs to help you in the bathroom to relieve yourself. You were asleep by the time I finished cleaning you up; I almost didn’t, the sight of my cum covering your belly was just so remarkable. It was too warm in the tent; the air was stifling up there with the cooling breeze from the day dying down, so I brought you in here where it's cooler and tucked you in bed. And I haven’t been to sleep.”

John plucked at some of Harold’s chest hairs and then smiled hopefully, “I was waiting for you to wake up. What we did up there was so damned awesome, but…”

“Go on John, but … what?” Harold urged him to continue.

John blurted it out with a huff, “I need you to fuck me Harold, make me yours again.”

Harold nearly panicked, but managed to say calmly, “John, we’re married now and that ring I put on your finger kind of makes you mine?”

John leaned in to kiss Harold’s doubts away, “I know despite what your doctor told you, you’re afraid you won’t be able to perform, at least not so soon after what we did last night, that you’ll disappoint me somehow if you can’t, but you’re wrong. I could never be disappointed in you. You gave me the most intense orgasm I've ever had with your hand and tongue alone. If you can’t right now you can’t; I won't be crushed. But you don’t know how much I need you in me right now.”

John reached down between Harold’s legs and took him in hand, “Let your partner do the work?” John almost pleaded, “At least let me try?”

 _How can I deny him this?_ We are life mates, half of the other’s soul. Harold pulled John down for a hungry kiss, and whispered against his husband’s lips, “Yes, whatever you need me to give now or take from you.”

John held the kiss for several seconds before sitting up. The look on John’s face was like Harold had just given him the moon and stars: Harold’s heart swelled with affection.

Some of Harold’s apprehension lessened as he felt himself harden from John’s skilled mouth and hands; that part of him had rebounded quickly and without chemical aids.

Harold felt like he was going to jump out of his own skin with how horny he became as John sucked and jerked him off. He practically shouted, “Please no more.”

John took mercy on him and reached under the pillow for a condom packet and a bottle of lube. John tore open the packet, slipped the condom over Harold’s cock and slicked the sheath with lube.

Harold was consumed with lust, his mind only focused on feeling the intensity of his cock buried deep inside John, but something triggered a warning bell when John swung his leg over him. _He’s not ready. I haven’t prepared him_. Harold just managed to choke out, “Wait! Stop! You’re not prepared. I don’t want to hurt you,” when John lined the head of Harold’s cock at his opening.

John rose back up and leaned forward to rest his forehead on Harold’s.

“Shhh, shhh, it's okay," John soothed, “Let your partner do more, remember?”

To ease Harold’s concern even more, he took Harold’s hand and moved it to his ass, “Finger my hole,” John urged him.

Harold did as asked to make sure; hurting John because of his urgent need to have Harold inside him was unforgivable. Harold easily slipped his index and middle fingers inside his husband and scissored them. John’s puckered hole was indeed stretched open, slippery, and very ready for penetration the size of Harold’s girth.

John groaned and pleaded, “I'm ready! Can you **please** fuck me?’

Harold’s answer was his removing his fingers, grabbing John’s hips, and guiding him back, gasping, “Mount me … now!”

In one fluid movement John grabbed Harold’s cock again, lined the head with his opening, and lowered himself down until he was fully seated. Harold's hands fell from their hold on John’s hips to grab at the sheets when he felt John’s body tremble from finally being impaled by his cock, the hot, slick, canal now surrounding his shaft. Being one with John and buried deep within him knowing that John wanted no one else to have this pleasure was staggering.

Harold clutched at the sheets tighter – so hard that he was surprised they didn't rip apart – when John began fucking himself on Harold’s now pulsing rod. Harold felt he was going to be swept away by the tidal wave of pleasure washing over him as John sped up. The man above him closed in eyes in bliss. He ruthlessly ground himself against Harold’s groin. John appeared to be oblivious of everything except the iron bar inside him, stimulating his prostate. Harold reveled in the sight of the man he loved wallow in the pleasure they could share. All of Harold’s worries were unfounded, he realized as John groaned and whimpered above him. The last thought Harold had before a white hot pleasure engulfed him was that they could be everything for each other.

***

The two newlyweds awoke at the same time, both of them confused by the angle of the low light filtering in through the bedrooms windows.

“What time is it?” Harold yawned.

John looked at the clock on the nightstand at his side of the bed and blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes not believing the time he saw.

Turning back he threw an arm over Harold’s now pajama clad top – they had taken a long bath together in Harold’s ridiculously large walk-in tub and dressed afterwards before falling into the sleep of the dead – and leaned in for a quick peck on the lips and answered, “It’s almost seven...PM. How has your first twenty four hours of marriage been?”

Harold reached up to stroke John’s deliriously happy face, “Incredible. I should have married you years ago.”

John stilled the hand on his face and pulled it down to kiss its palm, “I wished you had too, but we’re married now and that’s what matters.”

“There’s something else I should have done years ago,” Harold admitted. “There’s a long black velvet jeweler's box in the nightstand drawer, your side. Take it out and open it.”

John did as asked. It was his set of dogs tags that he had left on the pillow after the first night Harold had claimed him before John had headed back to camp. The chain was different, pure silver it appeared to be now, and the tags themselves inlaid in silver too.”

“I had a jeweler make them into a necklace a few days before we were to meet in Beaumont as a gift for you; the only thing on them still correct was your name by then. I made the biggest mistake of my life when I turned around and walked out of that bar,” Harold said sadly. “It wasn’t because I didn’t love you, I never stopped and I started wearing the necklace in a way to keep you close to me.”

Harold drew in a shaky breath before continuing, “I had my field work to at least fill some of the void left in my life, but when that ended I was so lonely. I made another huge mistake getting involved with Beth because of it. The day I proposed to her I put the necklace back in its case and put it in that drawer, it just didn’t seem right somehow wearing it any longer; I hadn’t cried since I was a small boy, but I did that night.”

Harold was about to say more, but John put a finger to his lips silencing him, “We made mistakes, terrible ones, but the past is the past. We need to look to the future, our future: together.”

John took the necklace from the case and put it in the palm of Harold’s hand, “These are yours Harold, as am I. I don’t think you could make me any happier than I am right now with the exception of you wearing these again.”

“I love you so much Harold.”

“I love you too John.”

“Then we better get up out of this bed and feed ourselves,” John laughed. “We don’t want to succumb from the lack of sustenance before we begin our life together.

Harold laughed in return, put the necklace around his neck, and let his new husband pick him up to carry him towards the kitchen.

_Fall: six years into the future_

John Reese stirred in the queen sized bed that took up the majority of the second floor bedroom. The bedroom that at one time had belonged to his mother and father; John’s bedroom before he married Finch had become the nursery and was now the dream room of a four-year old, dyed in the wool, NASCAR fan.

It was once again three AM and when John turned on his side to cuddle up to his better half his arm was reaching for … nothing _. Harold? Not again!_

John was ready to throw back the thin sheet covering – his altogether; he was still naked from their earlier activities – throw on a robe and march into the room across the hall. _How many times did they need to have this discussion?_

Of course when he reached for his old blue terrycloth robe hanging from its usual spot on the bedpost, John paused long enough to listen to the sounds coming from the baby monitor.

Their son wasn’t a baby any more, hadn’t been since he had turned two and became a miniature Harold. Yet for the last four years the monitor had remained on Harold’s nightstand, as much a permanent fixture there as the lamp or their wedding photo.

The boy was far sighted, glasses perched on his tiny Harold nose; was a budding techno genius and whip smart – Harry could recite pi to its hundredth place before he was three years old; every bit of the boy was mirrored in Papa’s image and smarts, but for one thing. The child’s only Devereaux-Reese feature was his jet black hair.

The baby they had adopted was John’s half nephew. The mother had showed up three days after his and Harold’s first wedding anniversary claiming John’s half-brother, Edward, was the father. She told them Edward had abandoned her without so much as a goodbye eight months ago; that she was too young and had no money or job opportunities to raise the boy properly on her own; that she had yet to give the two-week old infant a proper name; and she would give up all rights to the baby for 40,000 dollars cash and a plane ticket. They had James Noble draw up the adoption agreement papers on a Tuesday. By that Sunday, John had driven the woman to Baton Rouge where she boarded a plane to LA, not once looking back. John and Harold Reese became the proud fathers of a blue-eyed black haired baby boy.

It was uncanny; little Jonathan Harold Reese was John’s blood kin. They had DNA testing done, but to see Harold and Harry together now – everyone except the chosen few who knew the truth assumed they were the blood relatives.

Well, baby Jonathan Reese or Harry as everyone had started calling him when the baby was only a month old – the child’s facial resemblance to Harold already noticeable – was a tiny Finch in every way except for little Harry’s enthusiasm for speeding cars and mayhem on an oval track. He never missed a weekend of the race season on the TV.

Daddy and Papa had tried to steer their boy into something else, anything else they could share with their child and not seem totally clueless. But the men in their colorful fire suits driving around in their roaring machines were Harry’s weekend heroes. END OF STORY!

Harry had been under the care of Mrs. Moseley one Sunday and had toddled into their living room, crawled up into Grandpa Cook’s lap, and the rest as they say was history. Now at four years of age, Harry Reese could recite every driver’s name, the number on their car, type of vehicle they raced, and where they placed in every kind of race, every day all season long.

Of course this was not the weekend, it was midweek, and Papa was Harry’s hero again. The hero that got up in the middle of the night when he had a bad dream, and would let Harry sit on his lap in the old wooden rocker. Harold would sing while little Harry managed to get the chair rocking back and forth. He would sing long after their son had fallen back asleep and the chair was still. It was their thing.

Reese tried and tried to convince his husband that Harold was spoiling the boy, so many times that John had lost count. Harold’s counter-point was that he couldn’t be the one to engage in father-son activities, but he could sure as hell comfort the boy when he needed a mother figure. “It’s my job!” Harold would huff and wheel himself into another part of the mansion or rejoin their son in his bedroom and close the door calmly behind him.  

Of course Reese knew he was fighting a losing battle, one he really didn’t want to win anyways. How could John deny his son the kind of love he himself had lost when his father died, the sense of belonging to someone that Harold had given John in a desert country long ago and was now giving to a child not of his body but of his heart?

Harold, no matter how much John tried to convince him otherwise, just didn’t believe that he was the glue that kept their family together. John was so hard-headed at times and finally came to realize it didn’t help the situation at all with John’s griping about Harold spoiling their son. John even began keeping his mouth shut when Harry stopped walking if Harold was anywhere near, instead choosing to climb in Papa’s lap and ride everywhere if given the chance.

Now, John would reach for the empty side of the bed, get flustered for a moment, and prepare to get up. He still often thought to go across the hall, and carry the man back to their bed if he had to and then give him lecture number...what number was it? Then he would hear Harold’s soothing croon over the monitor and lie back on the pillow listening; those two people across the hall were his whole world; John would smile or cry and wait.

Maybe within minutes John would hear the electric whir of Harold’s motorized chair as his husband returned to the bedroom, and feel Harold pulling himself back into bed. Harold would sigh, the one he made when everything was right in his world, and snuggle close to John’s side. Soon he would be snoring softly in John’s ear. **_All_** was right in their world and John turned his head just a bit so his cheek touched Harold’s nose and rejoined his husband in slumber.

The morning would find them getting ready for the day. John and Cal Templeton would go out to the fields with the workers. Harold would go run the office (Cal had handed over control gladly; he was a dirt under the nails foreman anyways) and have every machine programmed so that no one need do anything but load seed, fertilizer, or whatever was needed and then go along for the ride.

Little Harry would go off for his half day at preschool, his teacher more often than not just supervising while the tiny genius amazed her and the other little ones. The rest of the day he spent with Grandma and Grandpa Moseley. Those two were the ones truly guilty of spoiling the little man.

Hanging Moss grew twice its size the winter of that sixth year; John and Harold bought practically every available acre in the whole parish to grow the plantation’s operations. They hired five more families to live on and work the expanded holdings.

Morgan Parrish was still a predominantly heterosexual community, but three gay couples married in the parish that year. How could your community refuse to allow the freedoms given to people around the country now when the two men who saved a dying town and helped it thrive were married?

Time passed, things changed. But always the changes were for the better. John Harold Reese grew to an adult. The world lay at his feet. WFT courted its founder’s son to take over the reins, a position young Reese gladly turned down. Arthur Whitmore’s eldest son, Ryan, Harry’s senior by a decade and well groomed for the position, turned out to be the much better man for the job. Harry, for all his genius, only wanted a wife, children, and the family home, Hanging Moss.

 

_Dec. 10, 20—_

Jonathan “Harry” Reese paced the hall slowly up to the window at the hall’s end and back towards the small room decorated in soft yellow, his wife shuffling alongside him gripping his arm. They, he and Sarah, were at the small hospital in Morganville, Louisiana. It was the only six-story building on Main Street with his parent’s names in white two foot lettering above the main entrance, _John and Harold Reese Community Hospital._

His wife of two years was in her tenth hour of labor, their daughter seeming to be in no hurry to make her debut. Which may seem to Sarah to be nine long hours overdue, but to Harry it was a relief of sorts. Sarah’s parents, Sameen and Robert Parker, were in the family waiting room, but his had yet to arrive from their sixth month long second honeymoon in the mid-east.

The third generation Reese child whose life would begin at the plantation Hanging Moss wasn’t due for another two weeks. For all the medical advances in prenatal care and/or giving birth the natural way, the event which brought new life into the world started when the baby, he or she was ready. That left his parents scrambling to reach the airport in Tel Aviv two weeks early and his father the pilot flying the private jet through the night to get back home in time for the birth of their granddaughter.

Sarah was winded when she climbed back into bed, but assured Harry that was all she was and asked him to take a breather, to go check on her parents and give his two dads another call.

He kissed her forehead and left the room heading in the direction of the waiting room. It was a split moment decision to step out the side entrance on the ground floor and then make the detour to sit at a patio table in the warm winter sun.

“How can I be happier than I am right now?” He thought. “I married the girl I have loved since I pulled her pigtails the first day of kindergarten, the person who became my best friend in grammar school and was always there even through college, and now she is having my baby. I have wanted exactly this very thing my whole life. How can one man have so much?” The young man looked heavenward and mouthed his thanks.

Harry tried one more time to call each father’s cell phone before he went back inside. There was no answer on either number. He went back into the building, finished his walk down the hall, and stepped into the waiting room. Sarah’s parents stood up expectantly, only Harry’s eyes were drawn first to the two men in front of the row of soft chairs where Sameen and Robert had been sitting

One man, completely silver haired, stood tall; the passing of nearly three decades living as a civilian hadn’t softened his military stance in the least. The other smaller, older man, his thinning tawny brown hair streaked with the occasional gray, sat in a wheelchair with the taller silver haired man’s hand clasped on his shoulder. Harry held out his hand to shake his father’s other hand and welcomed the man, “Dad.” He then crouched down placing a hand on each of the sitting man’s thighs. Harry didn’t try to hide the tears that welled up in his eyes when in that moment it all came crashing down how frightened he really was and swallowed thickly, “Papa?”

John Reese lifted his hand from his husband’s shoulder and turned; he then lightly tugged at an arm belonging to each of his son’s in-laws to gently move them a few steps away. John wasn’t facing their direction but he knew even if he couldn’t see that Harold had urged their son to climb up onto his lap.

Jonathan Harold Reese threw his arms around his papa’s neck, sniffed into the other’s man’s neck, and allowed the tears to flow down his cheeks and soak into his father’s collar.

To anyone passing by it would look crazy or utterly ridiculous to see a fully grown man sitting on another man’s lap and sobbing like a small child. But every adult in that waiting room actually breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing the elder man’s soft croon of reassurance. “Papa’s here now. I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be okay.”

And everything was.

Harry went back to sit with his wife while the parents waited.

Another eight hours passed, during which each expectant grandparent had been able to sit one at a time in the labor room with Harry and Sarah. John was the last one allowed to come in for only a few minutes before he was herded right back out the door. Sarah had been doing her breathing when she stopped and gasped, “I think it’s time.”

Not even twenty minutes had passed when the delivery room nurse announced that Miss Catherine Constance Reese just checked into this world at a very healthy 7 lbs. 8 ozs. Sameen rose up out of her chair assuming she would be first allowed to see the baby.

The R.N. held up her hand, before looking at Harold and then walked behind his wheelchair. “You will all get your chance to see the young miss, but the parents’ asked that I bring _GrandPapa_ back to the room first.

The young woman then pushed Harold down the hallway and into another room, this one colored in every shade of pink imaginable. Sarah was dozing in her bed, the baby was swaddled in a white blanket adorned in flowers of every color of pastel and lying in a bassinet within in her mother’s arm’s reach, and his son Harry was standing close by looking down at them both.

The nurse hummed and turned to leave when the baby’s father looked up.

Harry nodded at the empty pink rocking chair and then at Harold. He waited until Harold had maneuvered himself over and into the rocker. Harry then picked up the baby and scooted the few steps over, and leaned down to place his daughter in GrandPapa’s arms.

”Neither of us can carry a tune in a bucket, so it’s going to fall on you to sing her to sleep, to chase away the nightmares.”

Harold tried to shake his head, to say no, but a tired voice came from the bed, “It’s your job, Papa.”

~~~

The second floor of Hanging Moss was refurbished with one more bedroom the beginning of the year.

John Reese stopped reaching across an empty bed; he just knew that Harold wouldn’t be there. John just moved his arm over, turned up the volume on the baby monitor, and closed his eyes. Harold’s singing and the cooing of a baby lulled everyone listening to the numerous monitors throughout the household back to sleep.

 

_Finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading Southern Comfort and allowing me a year to write what I had I originally intended to finish by last fall


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